Content warnings can be found at the end of this chapter.
Tim had always been a light sleeper, even before becoming Robin. It wasn't on purpose or anything—it was just the way things were. So, naturally, he was the first one up when he heard movement downstairs in the sitting room. Yesterday, Tim had mentally catalogued which floorboards he could walk on without making any significant noise, so, with this knowledge, he crept down the stairs, trying to listen to what was happening.
"—Patronus said that the man had been lurking around all morning," Remus explained in a hushed tone.
"Did he have the Dark Mark?" Sirius immediately asked.
"Mundungus didn't say. He just said that they were acting suspiciously and tried to run away when he made to Stun them."
Tim heard someone let out a small huff of annoyance, probably Tonks. "Any sane person would try to avoid a Stunner, that's nothing."
"Nonetheless, we should answer the call," Remus said. "If this man is a Death Eater, we might be able to extract information from him."
"Or it's a trap," Arthur suggested helpfully. "It's usually a trap."
Tonks sighed. "All right. Remus and I will head out. The rest of you, stay here and wait for our word." Everyone was in agreement, apparently, because Remus and Tonks started heading towards the door.
"Did he say what the bloke looked like?" Tonks asked him on their way out.
"He said he's never seen him before. Long trench coat and a lighter that he kept flicking on and off."
Tim sprinted down the stairs faster than he should have, and he barely managed to keep himself from tumbling over.
"Tim!" Molly exclaimed in a whisper. "Why are you up?"
"I need to come with you," he told Remus. It wasn't a request, and Tim didn't try to make it sound like it was. "I might know that man."
Remus and Tonks instinctively flanked Tim as they walked out the doors towards the nearby alley, which would have been sweet if Tim hadn't been perfectly capable of handling himself, thank you very much. As they approached the alleyway, voices could be heard amidst the quiet of the night.
"—swear to all that is 'oly that I'll beat the ever-lovin' shite outta ya!"
"Gonna be 'ard to do wifout the use o' yer legs, ya trench-coat-wearin' Mugglefucker!"
Tim shoved Remus and Tonks aside and ran over to the alley despite their protests, and that was when Tim saw Mundungus lighting a cigarette while a thoroughly beaten-up John Constantine sat on the ground leaning against the brick wall, his legs outstretched in front of him and his full attention on Mundungus and the middle finger he was busy holding up to said wizard.
"Constantine!" Tim practically cried in relief, and the man's head immediately jerked to the side upon hearing his voice.
"Timbo!" he cried out, and Tim winced as he took in Constantine's battered appearance. He was black and blue from head to toe, sporting two black eyes and a split lip. The hand that wasn't flipping off Mundungus was horribly mangled, so much so that the fingers seemed to all be pointing in different directions. His tie was missing, and the trench coat that he was wearing was not the same tan one Tim had seen him in every other time they had interacted.
Mundungus looked, if possible, more surprised than Constantine at Tim's arrival. "You know this arsehole?" he growled, gesturing to Constantine, who rolled his eyes.
"Of course 'e bloody knows me, 'e's th' 'ole reason I'm 'ere!"
Tim rushed over to Constantine and crouched down, gently grabbing his face (though not gently enough, judging by how the man still winced).
"Constantine—John—what—what happened to you?" he breathed, his heart breaking. This was the kind of torture one might see if they were taking on, say, an escaped Arkham convict. To see Constantine, someone Tim actually knew, in such a state was beyond unnerving—it was downright terrifying. He hated that this wasn't the first time he had seen someone close to him in such a sorry state, and he pointedly ignored the intrusive thought that this wouldn't be the last time either.
Constantine looked into Tim's eyes and let out a sharp laugh, which immediately transformed into him choking hoarsely, blood dribbling out of his mouth. "The real question's what didn't 'appen to me, kid."
Remus and Tonks appeared in the alleyway and took in the scene before them, wands out and at the ready.
"Tim, do you know this man?" Tonks asked, even though Tim thought it should be fairly obvious simply due to their close proximity.
"Yes, I do, he's a friend, he's magical, he needs medical attention now," he rattled off in one breath.
"We have supplies back at the headquarters," Remus said.
"We're taking him back to Grim—to headquarters?" Tonks asked, looking taken aback. Remus looked to Tim for the final confirmation.
Tim nodded. "He's a member of the JLA. He's on our side." Well, technically he was a reserve member, but those were semantics right now.
"Then, yes, I believe we are taking him back to headquarters."
They ended up levitating Constantine back, despite his protests that he could walk just fine (he couldn't, Tim could tell that one of his legs was broken) and onto the sitting room couch, which Sirius had no qualms with covering with blood, apparently. In fact, Tim had noticed that he in general treated the house with little to no respect, like he was always one bad day away from burning the whole place down.
Tim gently propped Constantine up on a tattered throw pillow. Constantine was mouthing something at Tim in between lungfuls of air and coughing fits.
"W-w-w—" He tried to form the words. "—w-wh—"
There were any number of questions that started with that sound. "We're in a safe location," Tim told him, "with some wizard friends of mine."
"Wh-wh—"
"Just try to steady your breathing, Constantine." He turned to the other occupants of the room who were awkwardly standing in a semicircle around the two of them. "Do any of you know where I could find some medical supplies? Or any healing spells?"
"Wh-whiskey…"
Tim stared at him blankly. "Whiskey," he repeated.
Constantine gave a tiny nod. "Jus' need s-some whiskey."
"Whiskey doesn't nearly have the alcohol content necessary to properly disinfect a wound," Tim informed him patiently.
"Anapneo," Tonks said, pointing at Constantine's throat, and the man stopped coughing.
"To drink, Tim," he growled through clenched teeth. "To drink." For a second, Tim just stared at Constantine, wondering where on earth this man's priorities were.
"We need to stop the bleeding," Tim announced, ignoring Constantine's request in the face of bigger problems. "Does anyone know a spell for that?"
Remus nodded, dropping down to where Tim was currently crouched. "I need to know where the wounds are." He said this with such authority that Tim was certain the man must have known what he was doing.
"Right," Tim nodded. "Constantine, I'm going to take off your clothes, starting with your shirt, okay? Tell me when you want me to stop."
Constantine nodded back. "It ain't a pretty sight, though, I can promise you that."
"Noted." He looked around, spotting a blanket in a basket under a moldy-curtained window and summoning it to himself with a quiet, "Accio." Taking another glance around the room, he noticed Mundungus fiddling with Constantine's lighter, Sirius staring intently at Constantine, Tonks anxiously watching Remus's work, and Molly holding a pair of filled potions flasks.
"Uh, can anyone who's not helping leave the room?" Tim asked, a little harsher than he had initially intended but far kinder than he should have been given the current amount of stress he was under. Sirius nodded, dragging Mundungus up the stairs behind him.
"Accio." Tim snatched the lighter out of the air and handed it to Constantine, who immediately pushed it back into Tim's hand.
"Gimme a light, will ya?" he asked so sincerely that Tim was almost won over.
"Not until you're healed," Tim shot back, unbuttoning Constantine's tattered shirt to reveal a multitude of bruises and scars, all mottled colors and clearly infected, oozing much more than blood. Behind him, he heard Molly gag.
"That good enough for you?" Tim asked Remus, who had already gotten to work without waiting for anyone's permission, mumbling, "Vulnera Sanentur," under his breath over and over again, like a mantra, while poking at Constantine's wounds.
Constantine hissed as the fluids started to disappear and the wounds closed themselves up. "Could—really use some o' that whiskey—right about now—!"
"Do you have any dittany lying around, Molly?" Remus asked, ignoring his patient's protests.
Molly lifted up the bottle in her right hand, a crystal phial filled with a cloudy brown liquid and handed it to Remus with trembling hands that betrayed her stoic expression.
"Thanks." He spread it around Constantine's stomach while Tim removed the man's pants, wincing at the way they stuck to his legs as he pulled them down, insides stained red.
"I also have some Skele-Gro," she offered, holding up the other potion and offering it to Remus.
Without looking, Remus nodded. "That'll be useful. Might want that whiskey to help it go down, though." Molly wordlessly summoned a bottle of some wizarding alcohol which she floated down next to him along with the Skele-Gro. Tim, unfortunately, hadn't spent much time researching medical magic, but Remus seemed to know what he was doing, so Tim let him (quite literally) work his magic. While Remus worked on the larger wounds, Tonks pulled out her wand and started healing the lesser injuries on Constantine's face, whispering, "Episkey," over and over until his face became more recognizable as the Hellblazer that he was.
"Tim," said Remus, pointing to the little phial on the ground, "get him to drink that." Tim, glad to finally be useful, switched over to Remus's left and knelt down next to Constantine.
Tim uncorked the bottle and placed it in Constantine's good hand. "You heard the man. Drink up."
"Yeah, yeah," Constantine muttered, putting it to his lips, but he had barely taken a sip when he was spitting it back out. "Christ, tha's nasty. Gimme that," he said, gesturing towards the bottle of whiskey.
But Constantine only had one hand available. "Drink the potion, and then I'll give it to you," Tim told him, grabbing the whiskey and shaking it temptingly in front of Constantine's face.
The color drained from his face. "You're jus' like your ol' man," he grumbled, eyeing the bottle of Skele-Gro warily. "Couple o' cheeky bastards, you two." He downed the potion in one go, and Tim could see the moment the taste hit his tongue because Constantine dropped the emptied flask, yanked the whiskey out of Tim's hand, and downed that as well, his face screwed up tight.
And just like that, a man who would have spent weeks, possibly months, in a hospital recovering was healed back to full health.
Tim needed to get his hands on some of those spells.
Half an hour and two of Mrs. Black's meltdowns later, the present Order members sat at the kitchen table with Tim and Constantine. It had taken a while to get the kids away after they had woken up to this whole situation ("The JLA? Like Tim?" "But he's not American, is he?" "How'd he get in here anyways, mum?"), but Molly had eventually sealed off the room with the same charm Hermione had used yesterday on Tim's bedroom, which Tim found mildly ironic.
Constantine now sported his classic cigarette, despite Molly's protests, and he wasted no time on pleasantries.
"I'd love to share my 'ole sob story with ya, but we really don' 'ave time for that right now," he told them. "All that matters is there's gonna be a prison break at Azkaban pretty soon."
"That's impossible," Sirius immediately said. "Trust me, I've been there, a mass break-out would never work. The dementors would snuff them right out."
"Not if the dementors are helpin' them escape," Constantine countered, blowing out a puff of smoke.
Remus's eyes widened. "Why would they do that?"
Tim grimaced, seeing the frown on Constantine's face. "Because they've sided with Voldemort," Tim concluded with a heavy sigh. "Understandable, really, given their disposition towards destruction."
"They have to be stopped," said Tonks, clenching a fist on the table. "Some of the worst Death Eaters are held there: Travers, Dolohov…the Lestranges…" Sirius made a face at that last name drop. Tim thought back to his long-forgotten genealogy chart, remembering that the Lestranges were Sirius's cousins by marriage, having married Bellatrix Black. Tim didn't know Sirius very well—he'd never gotten the chance to have a good conversation with the man—but it was this coupled with Sirius's blatant disregard for the state of the house that convinced Tim that Sirius wanted nothing to do with the Black family.
"An' 'ow exactly are we gonna do that?" Mundungus asked Tonks harshly.
"Well, for starters, we contact Dumbledore and the rest of the Order," said Remus.
Sirius rolled his eyes. "Just make sure Mad-Eye doesn't try to skin Tim's friend or anything. You know he's going to be suspicious."
"I'm just a little suspicious," Mad-Eye growled, pacing around Constantine like a vulture circling its prey, "of the fact that some friend of Timothy's just happens to show up and just happens to know about a secret breakout from Azkaban."
Constantine rolled his eyes. "I was stuck in some rich arsehole's dungeon for over two months, of course I know 'bout things."
Molly almost dropped her mug of coffee. "Pardon?"
"I lit'rally escaped a week ago."
Oh. Oh. No wonder he hadn't been sending Tim any new information. Tim suddenly felt horrible about doubting the man's strength of conviction. 'Too busy to respond' indeed.
Dumbledore cleared his throat from the end of the table. "Would you care to elaborate on the circumstances surrounding your captivity, Mr. Constantine?"
Constantine glanced over at Tim, silently asking his permission to tell his story. Tim gave a barely-perceptible nod. Go on.
"Well, I've been tryin' ta infiltrate the Death Eaters for the past few months, 'round when Tim started goin' to Hogwarts. I'm a reserve member of the Justice League. They called me in 'coz I know my way 'round London and I know a helluva lot 'bout the Dark Arts." A couple of people looked concerned by this revelation, but Constantine clearly did not care for their discomfort. "Anyways, things were goin' pretty good for a while there 'til my cover got blown. Not as a member o' the League but as a known ally, which isn't much better, honestly. Guess by that time I was in too deep, 'coz I got the honor of spendin' the better part of two months in the basement of that pretentious asshat Lucius Malfoy's manor gettin' 'nterrogated by a couple o' nasty blokes tryin' to weasel info outta me. I, ah, wasn't exactly the most…compliant, shall we say."
"How did you escape?" Snape asked, narrowing his eyes and looking Constantine up and down like the idea of him escaping from anywhere was inconceivable.
"Made a deal with a demon," Constantine said plainly, in the same way that one might say, "I had lunch with a coworker."
Molly spat out her coffee. "S-sorry?"
Constantine smirked. "Yep. Summoned a demon with a vengeance, promised to 'elp 'im rebel against 'is master after 'e got me outta those dungeons. Then, I went and told on 'im to 'is master, let's call 'im Asmodel." Upon receiving blank stares, Constantine continued to elaborate, which Tim was pretty sure was not the reason they were staring at him. "Ol' Asmodel was terribly easy to fool, 'e's pretty desperate to please the current Satan."
"The—" Tonks choked.
"—current—" Sirius whispered.
"—Satan?" Mundungus practically screeched.
Constantine shrugged. "I'd tell you their name, but it's not somethin' I'd wanna invoke in 'ere." Sensing that most, if not all, of this had gone over everyone's heads, he sighed and then took a drag of his cigarette. "Long story short: made a deal with a demon, tattled on 'im to 'is commanding archfiend, demon was caught, and 'is deal's dissolved. Everyone leaves either 'appy or damned to eternal suf'ring."
This was not the weirdest story Tim had heard about Constantine, not by a long shot. It wasn't even the weirdest deal—that had to go to that one with the three leaders of Hell when Constantine had gotten lung cancer. Apparently, the man hadn't learned his lesson because here he was, thoroughly enjoying a cigarette and being very much cancer-free.
Mad-Eye was the first one to speak after an uncomfortably long silence during which everyone failed in their attempts to subtly give Constantine a once-over.
"So, I'm supposed to trust a guy who blags the Devil himself?"
Constantine blew the smoke out through his teeth. "Yep."
"You sound absolutely mad, you know that?"
"Yep."
Mad-Eye grinned, his prosthetic eye rolling around furiously. "Welcome to the club, mate."
"Trust Mad-Eye to believe the shadiest bloke we've met in a while," Sirius muttered, though he was hiding a smile. Tim tried not to show how offended he was at how quickly Constantine had won Mad-Eye over. Tim was pretty sure the old wizard still didn't trust Tim as far as he could throw him.
"If you could please tell us about this 'break-out?'" Dumbledore suggested mildly, though Tim was able to see a panic in his eyes that was rather uncharacteristic of his headmaster.
"'F course," Constantine nodded. Tim, sitting next to him, noticed that he had a hand in his pocket, like he was turning his lighter over in his palm repeatedly. "The Dark Lord's planned a prison-break. He ain't even gonna send any o' his Death Eaters along—it's all gonna be the prisoners and the dementors."
"Do you know when?" Dumbledore pressed him.
Constantine scowled. "They all talked 'bout it like it was goin' down soon, but they never mentioned a specific time, jus' that they'd 'know' or some shit."
"The Dark Mark," Snape immediately said. "That will be their signal."
He nodded. "Tha's what I was thinkin'. Anyways, I dunno if it can really be stopped or anything, it's just important to know, you know?"
Tim looked at Dumbledore hopefully. "Can we stop it?"
Dumbledore stroked his beard, sharing a look with Snape.
"We can at least warn the Ministry," McGonagall suggested helpfully.
"You honestly think they'd buy that shit?" said Sirius. "Knowing them, they'd probably blame the whole thing on Dumbledore. Or me, I'm usually their scapegoat."
"I've warned Cornelius about the dementors before," Dumbledore sighed. "I am afraid that he refuses to listen to reason."
Mad-Eye shook his head, his eye staring at Snape. "And even if they listened to us, what would they do about it? Send a bunch of Aurors to guard the place? No one'd willingly spend time around a dementor, not even an Auror."
"Those prisoners were free the moment the dementors allied themselves with Voldemort," Tim realized aloud. "This breakout is just them making it official."
McGonagall leaned over, head in her hands. There was a pall among them. Everyone was just trying to accept the fact that it was too late. Tim was taking it particularly hard.
If only I'd saved Constantine sooner, he thought, clenching his fists under the table. If only I'd paid attention when he warned me about the dementors. I could have come up with something, surely.
"Well then," Dumbledore finally said, straightening up in his seat. "The time for regrets is later. We have to prepare for the next battle, whatever it may be."
Tim's next battle happened to be surviving the Knight Bus, the sketchiest and least-reliable bus service Tim had ever used, which was saying something because he grew up in Gotham. He held out his arm at another turn, keeping Ginny from flying out into the old lady with the big carpetbag.
"We paid eleven Sickles for this shit?" Ginny said, gasping for a breath. Tim was inclined to agree. He'd driven with Steph, he'd driven with Jason, he'd driven with the Joker, but never before did his heart hop out of his chest every time he saw another car beside them, wondering if it was going to be a victim of the Knight Bus driver's horrible merging skills. Tim's one comfort was knowing that his luggage was at Hogwarts already and that Alfred did not have to be along for the ride.
He found the cat curled up on the end of his bed when he reached the dorms, safe and sound, and watching it sleep, Tim suddenly was reminded of how long a day he'd just had. Sure, he'd had longer, but there was a bed right in front of him, and it looked so inviting and warm… By the time his roommates had arrived, Tim was already out like a lightbulb, Alfred pressed up to his side.
It almost seemed too good to be true.
APPARITION LESSONS
IF YOU ARE SEVENTEEN YEARS OF AGE, OR WILL TURN SEVENTEEN ON OR BEFORE THE 31ST AUGUST NEXT, YOU ARE ELIGIBLE FOR A TWELVE-WEEK COURSE OF APPARITION LESSONS FROM A MINISTRY OF MAGIC APPARITION INSTRUCTOR. PLEASE SIGN BELOW IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO PARTICIPATE. COST: 12 GALLEONS.
Tim had considered it before, of course—learning how to Apparate, that is. The moment he'd learned that wizards were capable of such a thing, he'd immediately started reading into it, trying to figure out how one would go about learning such a thing. Unfortunately, the process would have been far too time-consuming for Tim, as he was spending his summer simply learning all the spells and potions he'd need to know to jump into school. Tim had resolved that perhaps once the mission was over, or at least if he had a significant break, he could learn how. Because being able to teleport was one of the most useful superpowers Tim knew. The thought that he, while wearing his annulus, would be capable of teleportation made him giddy with excitement.
Well, if it's something students my age usually do, it would be suspicious if I didn't take lessons…
Tim was the first to sign up.
After Potions that afternoon, Tim decided to stay behind to talk to Snape about Harry's upcoming Occlumency lessons. He was met with more than a few horrified looks from fellow Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs when they realized that he was going to talk with Snape outside of their designated class period. The thought that someone would willingly do such a thing was apparently preposterous. Snape, however, did not seem surprised, merely waited patiently for the other students to file out and for the large wooden door to slam shut.
"Mr. Drake-Wayne," Snape said softly. "To what do I owe the…pleasure…?"
Tim knew that Snape didn't like him in the same way that he didn't like ninety percent of all people. It was a mutual distaste. He was often hard on Tim, but Tim always received excellent grades, so he'd always assumed it was just the man's way of pushing him to be better. He didn't arbitrarily dock points from Tim's House for venial offenses; in fact, Tim hadn't seen the man do that at all during his Potions lessons, leading him to believe that that was something personal against the Gryffindors.
There was, of course, the fact that he was abusive to his students in every way but physical, having apparently threatened to kill Neville's pet toad before and scared the boy enough that his boggart took the form of the man. But Tim was trying to give the man a second chance like his younger brother had suggested.
Anyways, Tim didn't need to particularly enjoy Snape to respect him. The man had done an admirable job at trying to get into Tim's mind, which was notoriously difficult, and anyone who had the inner strength and courage to defect from evil had Tim's automatic respect. He'd watched Damian go through that, that stuff wasn't easy.
"I was hoping to go over your plans for Harry's Occlumency lessons," Tim told him, setting his shoulders back and going into CEO Mode—all business, no play. At least, no play that people knew of.
Snape raised an eyebrow. "What of them?"
"Oh, just what techniques you were teaching him, how you were going to practice, that sort of thing, in case Harry struggles to grasp the concept."
"There is little that Potter does not struggle to grasp," Snape sneered. Tim took a deep breath, trying to ignore that comment. CEO Mode, Tim. Brush off the insults. Turn it back around.
Tim nodded, like Snape had somehow made a good point. "All I want is for Harry to have a well-protected mind, Professor. I've been told that I have one."
"Indeed," said Snape, looking Tim up and down. "Tell me, who taught you your techniques?"
"Two members of the JLA," Tim told him. "Martian Manhunter is a natural telepath, and Batman has an incredibly well-trained mind."
It was obvious Snape knew of neither of them, but he nodded anyways. "Your techniques were…unique, to say the least. When I was in your mind—"
Attempting to be in my mind, Tim silently corrected.
"—I felt a very physical presence before me. Not a wall, like I normally see, but a whole mansion. Is that on purpose?"
Tim nodded. "It's a safe space. When I'm in there, I can keep anyone out. I can also direct them to the back doors, where I'm in control of what they're seeing," he explained. "So, if I want them to think they've broken into my mind, I let them go back there. If I want them to know that I'm blocking them out, I stay inside."
Snape actually looked impressed at Tim, which was a new look. "I see. Your mastery of Occlumency at your young age is nothing short of prodigious." Wow, and a compliment, too? Maybe CEO Mode needed to come out more.
"Very well," he continued. "Though Potter will be…difficult to teach, I plan on taking a head-on approach and delving into his mind immediately so that he is able to recognize the feeling and to better comprehend the importance of Occlumency."
Throw him right in—the Dick Grayson approach to learning. Want to have good spatial awareness? Let's start by standing on moving trains while blindfolded. Tim was pretty sure that Snape's method would be more effective than starting with theory. At least some teachers at this school understood the importance of hands-on learning.
"From there, I will teach him how to empty his mind, and better suppress his emotions." Snape did not look like he thought Harry capable of that last one. "That is all I am sure he will be capable of."
Tim smiled. It was a solid syllabus. Snape must have put a lot of thought into this, despite his condescending attitude towards his student. Tim held back a smile. This was probably the best conversation he'd ever had with Snape. Maybe there was something here, a connection to be made.
"That sounds great," Tim told him. "Let me know if he's struggling to grasp any concepts."
Snape rolled his eyes. "I am quite certain he will let you know himself. The boy is quite vocal."
Harry immediately started talking when Hermione gave him the slightest push, going on about how he had seen the Department of Mysteries in his head and that he knew that something must be inside—probably that weapon that Voldemort wanted.
Tim, of course, already knew this, but he nodded along as though he, too, was following the boy's deductions. Ron and Hermione, on the other hand, were very disturbed by this news.
"So…" Ron whispered, "so, are you saying…that the weapon—the thing You-Know-Who's after—is in the Ministry of Magic?"
"In the Department of Mysteries, it's got to be," Harry continued. "I saw that door when your dad took me down to the courtrooms for my hearing, and it's definitely the same one he was guarding when the snake bit him."
Tim knew that look in Hermione's eye. She'd deduced something.
"Of course," she whispered.
"Of course what?" Ron looked as though he expected Death Eaters to poke out their heads from behind the bookshelves at any moment.
"Ron, think about it…Sturgis Podmore was trying to get through a door at the Ministry of Magic… It must have been that one, it's too much of a coincidence!" That sounded very much like Tim's Razor. A legitimate method to be fair. And she wasn't wrong. None of them were, not really.
"How come Sturgis was trying to break in when he's on our side?"
"Well, I don't know," Hermione admitted. Neither did Tim. He hadn't actually been aware that Sturgis Podmore was an ally of the Order of the Phoenix before now. "That is a bit odd…" She glanced over at Tim, as if waiting to hear his deduction.
"He could have been Imperiused," Tim suggested. "That would explain the erratic behavior."
"So, what's in the Department of Mysteries?" Harry asked Ron, which Tim assumed was because the boy's father worked for the Ministry of Magic. "Has your dad ever mentioned anything about it?"
"I know they call the people who work in there 'Unspeakables,'" Ron said. "Because no one really seems to know what they do in there… Weird place to have a weapon…"
Hermione shook her head. "It's not weird at all, it makes perfect sense. It will be something top secret that the Ministry has been developing, I expect…"
Tim nodded, turning to Harry to hear what else he had to say, but the boy was pale and clammy, pressing his hands to the scar on his forehead.
"Hey, Harry, you okay?" he asked. Was it Voldemort? Or was it just a bad migraine? Were those connected? Tim had scars that ached occasionally, it wasn't that weird, but when one had a special connection to an evil wizard through their scar, it might just be important.
"Yeah…" he whispered, "fine…" Tim was leaning towards the migraine theory. "I just feel a bit…I don't like Occlumency much…"
Oh. Now Tim just felt stupid. This boy had just had his mind invaded for the first time—multiple times in a row, probably. Of course he had a migraine, Tim remembered feeling like that after he started training with J'onn.
"I expect anyone would feel shaky if they'd had their mind attacked over and over again," Hermione said softly, and Tim was surprised at how she had automatically lowered her voice to accommodate for Harry.
"I find that dark, quiet spaces are best for recovery," Tim whispered. He would have put a hand on Harry's shoulder supportively, but he didn't know if the boy wanted physical contact right now, so he didn't risk it. "I promise it'll go away."
"T-thanks," Harry murmured, and he pressed his sweaty palms into his eyes.
This wasn't just the Occlumency practice. That must have just been the breaking point. To be under so much pressure to perform and so much scrutiny and the constant weight of leadership on his mind… Getting a migraine was just the straw that broke the camel's back. It was all he could do not to break down in front of his friends.
Tim didn't have a solution to any of that, unfortunately. If he did, his own life would be so much easier. But some things helped, like a good night's sleep, so he encouraged the boy to get to bed early and drink lots of water. That, at least, Tim could help with.
Mundungus Fletcher: *has Cockney accent*
John Constantine: *usually has a Scouse accent in the comics unless it's written by an American, played by Matt Ryan as a Lancashire/Welch mix because us dumb Americans can't understand true Scouse in all its glory*
Me, researching all this: okay this isn't too hard, I'll just write the Cockney accent like JKR writes it and I'll just look up Scouse for Constantine
Me, three hours later, knees-deep in authentic Scouse and losing my mind: fuck accents Mundungus and Constantine are going to speak the same way and the new plan is to remove the 'h' in front of every word and occasionally shorten the 'ing' *cracks knuckles*
CW: semi-graphic descriptions of major injuries to a character