Headache
She wakes up in agony. Her hair is plastered over her face, sticky with sweat and her vision swims in the darkness of their dorm room. She is more than ill at the moment. She thinks her time might have come.
She thinks her roommates might worry about her absence and then dismisses the thought almost immediately. Judging from the darkness outside, it is too early in the morning for anything to actually wake them. Much less their instinctual concern for her which might actually be extinct.
“Where's my wand?” She mutters and her voice comes out dry. She looks through a couple drawers before ultimately choosing to leave it behind. It’s the way her brain rocks in her skull when she bends over that convinces her. Not the thought of waking a sleeping Narcissa.
She should have gone and seen madam pomfrey earlier. Now that she’s put it off, her headache bangs like an angry war drum, almost mocking her.
If she weren’t in such agony, she might’ve hexed her own self into a permanent silence.
The cold air of the corridors hits her square in the chest and she almost feels like throwing up. Nausea always comes next. She’d better hurry up before the other side effects kick in.
She’s been surviving perfectly fine and unmedicated for a while now. At first the pills had left her weak and needy. She had become too reliant upon something made by the hands of a muggle and so she had no choice but to wean herself off them. The headaches were the worst then, but eventually they left her.
Today they seem intent on showing her why she began taking the medicine in the first place.
Her footsteps clamber tiredly down the twisty passageways of the school. She’s using the fastest route she knows but unfortunately that also means the most isolated route. There are no paintings littering the tunnels of the dungeons, no ghosts, nobody to save her should her body collapse and she lose consciousness.
She doesn’t have much of a choice other than to push forward until she finds some semblance of safety. Even if it means her toes are burning frightfully as she puts more and more weight onto the balls of her feet. Her heels hurt, and so do her legs. She’s exhausted and yet nothing could possibly get her to go back to bed.
Is it fear? It might be.
In circumstances like these, one can’t be entirely sure that they’ll be ok after all.
Its a wretched situation to be in. There is no good choice, only a logical one. Her parents will no doubt be alerted when she graces the entrance of the hospital wing looking like a blend between a ghost and a sickly young woman.
Her father will find out about her fragility, he will make an attempt to resolve it.
Alexandra supposes she should stock up on some numbing potion while she still has the chance. Her father is a surgeon, he knows what he’s doing.
There is no longer a moon in the sky, it is somewhere down below, retreating and probably sympathising with her for whatever predicament she is currently fighting. Arrogantly and cruelly, because she thinks she would have done with experiencing this pain sometime later in the day. Perhaps in the afternoon where she could disappear and actually concern the student body with her absence.
Even if they do notice it, she can wager that Narcissa will delude herself into thinking she’s currently shacking up with Mulciber.
That’s not a particularly nice thought to have when you’re already nauseous you see.
She thinks she can hear the sound of a howl in the backdrop of the school fields. She’s too tired to actually feel fear, so she shivers on the spot instead. There’s a tremor in her bones and it actually hurts as it crawls through her skin.
Only a couple more steps she bargains, only a couple more steps and this won’t bother you anymore. Her hair feels even more uncomfortable now that it seems to have been frozen to her scalp, seeing as the sweat and cold air combination doesn’t do much for it.
Her heart is slowing down considerably and the breath falters in her lungs. She crosses the entry of the hospital wing when she passes out. A shout thick with concern sounds somewhere behind her.
—------------------
Angry elephants must have taken her hostage with the intent of stomping upon her carcass until she is finally lifeless. Only then would they deliver the honour of completing the final stomp to their leader.
Bit weird really, that the elephants have adapted this much. She can’t actually wrap her head around how they could have developed the skill to craft a ball of cotton into a thick warm blanket with nothing but a pair of tusks and some circular hooves. She is still grateful though, that they have laid her to rest so comfortably. The epitome of hospitality it must be.
It's a fleeting thought because she is soon hit by reality and the elephants vanish completely, replaced instead by the familiar smells of antiseptic potions and the sound of hushed whispers.
She’s in the hospital wing. Again.
Her limbs feel heavy, weighed down by something more than just exhaustion. There’s a dull ache that throbs in time with her pulse, but at least the worst of the headache seems to have ebbed away. She blinks slowly, adjusting to the light filtering in through the tall windows, and realises with a sinking feeling that it’s much later than she’d like.
The entire day has flown past her as she spent her precious time dreaming of elephants in the soft cover of the hospital wing.
She has important things to be doing, things that require concentration as effort. Homework and duties that she can’t fulfil if she is stranded in a hospital bed like a sickly child. She should be stronger than this, but even as she tries to sit up she finds that her spine aches particularly hard. Her headache isn’t really there anymore, but her hands still shake frantically and there is still sweat building on her brow.
She takes a quick glance at her surroundings. Maybe there's a potion she can down before leaving. It’s late in the day, but not late enough for her to miss the entirety of charms. She can still make it if she doesn’t shower, if she can get out of the room without alerting any suspicion from Madame Pomfrey.
“Leaving will do you more harm than good Ms Garnier.” Someone says from behind her. She feels a bitter sigh building in her chest as her plans are all but shot down. Of course she knows what Alexandra wants to do, she’s seen her do it more than anyone else.
She slumps lowly into her pillows, ignoring the scream of pain in her ears. Everything is tense. Too tense. “Better than rotting away here.” She mumbles, and she pretends not to see the pity in the older woman's face. She doesn’t need pity, she needs to leave.
“You are not rotting child, you are healing.” She says and the clinking of vials fills the room as she pours an orange potion into a cup of juice. It annoys her a bit, she’s not a child. “Merlin knows you wouldn’t have to do either if you actually took care of yourself.”
Alexandra rolls her eyes, pushing her head further into a pillow. When her hair touches her neck, she frowns at its condition. It feels rough and tangled. “I manage just fine.”
The lady doesn’t respond and just sends her concerned look. There's an orange box that she pulls into her pocket, and she probably thinks that since Alexandra isn’t facing her head on, she won't see the small white pill that she crushes and pours into her potion.
Once again, Alexandra hates being treated like a child, much less a stupid one.
“I can’t let you out of here until your body is back to functioning.” The lady says, and she puts the cup on her bedside table wiping her sleeves on her apron as though she had not attempted to drug the girl nonconsensually.
Honestly, she ought to report her practice to the ministry. Terribly unprofessional.
“Back to functioning.” She mutters, eying the red vial wearily. “That could be anytime between tomorrow and the next three months.” It smells strongly of oranges and palm trees. Alexandra almost scoffs at the woman's audacity, as if changing the smell would convince her to take the medicine. If anything she feels more obliged to throw it in her face.
“Not if you cooperate for once,” Pomfrey shoots back, the frustration clear beneath her calm, matronly tone. “You might find things go faster.”
It’s always a battle of wills on days like this. Usually she wins, but it seems the healer feels particularly stubborn today.
The retort building in her stomach dies in her throat. The pain potions she had been taking are making her sluggish, and as a result she doubts she’s comfortably in her wits to engage in verbal warfare with Madame Pomfrey.
The potion sends another waft of oranges and coconut in her direction and she wrinkles her nose. She’s never fancied being manipulated, even when it comes in the form of doctorly advice. “I’m not drinking that.” She says and she crosses her arms around her chest.
Madame Pomfrey raises an eyebrow, her lips tightening, but she says nothing. She simply pushes the cup a little closer, as if to challenge her. “Suit yourself,” she finally replies, turning on her heel. “But if you want to be out of here by morning, I’d suggest you reconsider.”
Alexandra watches her go and wonders if in another lifetime that might be her. Forcing patients to take their medicine so as to make sure they don’t endanger themselves any further. It’s a noble profession and she respects Pomfrey for the effort. That doesn’t mean she’ll listen to her though. She doesn’t require medical attention, she just needed a bit of sleep.
Now that she has had a good rest, she thinks she’ll be fit enough to take a walk on the grounds. She shifts gingerly on her bed trying not to put too much pressure on her arms, and her feet and her spine. She doesn’t think crawling is all too bad of an idea at the moment. She’s in the process of dangling her toes off the edge of the mattress when something catches her eye.
It’s a glimpse of movement coming from behind the curtain beside her. There’s another patient currently being tended to by a healer, and she, being so wrapped up in her own problems, had failed to recognise that she is naturally not the only patient in the hospital wing.
Now that she does realise this, she shifts back onto her sheets, the last thing she wants is to be known as the witch caught on her knees in a hospital ward of all places. She peeks at the corner of the curtain, peaked with interest.
And then, as if all motion is powered by her glare, it is pulled to the side. Not deliberately, more like someone clumsily tugging at it whilst trying to sit up.
Her eyes land on the figure sat hunched over on the adjacent bed. At first, she cannot recognise the person beside her, there is a network of thin white scars covering every inch of his back. Some of them are healed, the majority of them are not. His bare arms are lit with dark bruises and deep ridges of injuries that look as though they are never going to heal.
Suddenly her own pains seem miniscule. Suddenly her breath hitches in her throat.
She’s seen scars like this before. Smaller, less aggressive yet nonetheless breathtaking on the face of Remus Lupin, who is currently taking a sip of what appears to be a foggy potion in a clear vial.
He’s always been scruffy, rough around the edges. She’s never paid much attention to the notion itself however. One can only assume being friends with the likes of the marauders gets you in all sorts of mischief available. This isn’t the result of regular mischief though, none of the other boys are here. And she doesn’t need to look at him directly to see the tension that creeps into his face as a result of his restricted movement.
He isn’t bandaged up, instead he has an array of those muggle antiseptic plasters glued across his body. She assumes it's because Madame Pomfrey intends to keep any infection at bay, but what causes such a level of destruction unto one's being?
It looks as though he has been torn apart from the inside out and she can tell from the steady flow of blood dripping from beneath the plasters, that he is still reeling from the effects of it.
Whoever has done this is cruel and far too powerful.
“Next moon, we will have you better prepared.” One of the healers whispers unsuccessfully. Alexandra’s close enough to him on the bed to hear what they say comfortably without needing to strain her hearing.
None of them seem to notice her presence, and she is suddenly met with a quick understanding of what occurred only the night before, and perhaps every other night that she has slept here at Hogwarts.
Remus Lupin holds his scars differently to the werewolves in her fathers tomes, the ones he studies feverishly with obsession. He appears more graceful and taken to his human side than that of what she might call a monster.
It's fascinating to see, a being controlled by the height of the night. She can’t find it in herself to be truly fearful of what she sees before her. A lanky boy of 16 huddled into his covers whilst quietly rejecting the care of the nurses.
She thinks he’s stupid and arrogant and that he ought to listen to what they say, he’s only survived this long because of them, and will continue to do so for the rest of his life.
Alexandra tears her gaze away from the sight of his battered body, forcing herself to lie back against the pillows. Her head spins with thoughts she doesn't want to entertain, her skin itching with the knowledge she’s just acquired. He’s a monster. A monster with scars and pain, and now she can’t help but feel a morsel of guilt for a trouble she’s caused him over the years.
He’s the most tolerable of them somehow, even as he has a beast hiding amongst the very tendons beneath his flesh. She respects him more, she fears him.
Werewolves do not have the self control to be hunting down specific targets and killing them, she thanks him for not doing this anyway. He hasn’t harmed anyone for as long as he’s been here, he’s suffered in silence and allowed the world to deliver cruel punches to him without fearing retaliation.
She’s not looking at him anymore, instead facing the ceiling, even then, she can still sense when he turns over and sends a weary gaze in her direction. It's the heightened nerves she thinks, even if the full moon isn’t for another month, one cannot be too sure, especially in her current condition which hinders her from running very far should her life come to immediate danger.
Remus glances over, his expression tight with discomfort, but his eyes—those big, brown eyes—meet hers for just a moment. Alexandra pretends to be engrossed in the ceiling tiles, anything but him. Her heart races. She has to act like she doesn’t know.
“How long have you been in here?” Remus’s voice is quiet, strained.
She shrugs, still staring upward. “It’s none of your business Lupin.”
“Long enough then,” he mutters, his voice thick with the same exhaustion she feels. She thinks she can hear a bit of frustration in his tone. She swallows thickly.
For a second, there’s an awkward pause and she thinks that's the end of their interaction and is about to heave a sigh of relief when, “You should take your potions,” Remus says suddenly, almost in the same tone Pomfrey used earlier.
She rolls her eyes, the edge of sarcasm slipping out before she can stop it. She takes it back, she’s willing to hex the nosiness out of him even if he could rip her head off. “Why, so I can end up looking like you?”
The sharpness in her tone cuts the silence. Remus flinches ever so slightly but doesn’t respond. His silence leaves her feeling unbalanced, so she pushes herself up just enough to glare at him.
Nothing has changed about him. He might be bloodied and bruised but he is still as meddlesome as the rest of his pathetic friends. Merlin, she can’t believe she almost pitied him. "Take them," he repeats, the words firm despite his obvious pain.
The audacity of him. She’s about to snap back with something quite foul, when she remembers that it’s not worth it—she’s not looking for a conversation, especially not with him. Instead, she huffs, turning her back to face him, signalling the end of their brief exchange.
---
Later, when the hospital wing finally empties out and Pomfrey is distracted, Alexandra sneaks out, determined to avoid any further confrontation about her medication and whether or not she ought to take it. Everybody seems to be forgetting that its her body, and at the end of the day, her choice when it comes down to what happens to it.
With that thought laying stubborn in her chest, she limps across the hall. She’d be lying if she said her body doesn’t ache. It burns with every step, and yet the thought of rotting like a sick child in the hospital wing burns her even more.
It’s a scalding determination that leads her towards the kitchens, her stomach growling angrily in complaint at the lack of dinner.
Not that she hasn’t eaten of course. She just finds that a few measly sausages and some sweetcorn isn’t enough to sustain her and her healing body. That, and she thinks Madame Pomfrey might’ve smuggled a tablet or two inside the meal. She’s in desperate need of some firewhisky to flush it out of her system.
The elves hide some in their stores for the students most willing to pay them the most. Dumbledore most likely isn’t aware of this underground business, not that he’d have much to say about it anyway. After all, his precious Gryffindors are in charge of the supply.
Normally, she’d send Avery to retrieve some from hogmede when he goes late at night, no doubt up to some form of dodgy behaviour. She doesn’t have the luxury of that right now, so she’ll have to settle.
As she pushes open the door to the kitchens, the soft glow of lanterns dances across the stone walls, she thinks it’s an enchantment at first, the way the figures in the shadows interact resembling that of a fairytale. But when the one she deemed handsome prince throws back his head in laughter, and a sound so maddeningly mocking escapes from his lips-she stops in her tracks.
She wants to die in embarrassment.
Sirius Black is perched on a stool, his posture infuriatingly laid back and his black hair cascading freely along his shoulders. It’s dishevelled in a way that suits him perfectly, as though he was crafted by the gods with a specific picture in mind. He’s currently mid-argument with a house-elf, gesticulating grandly like a war general delivering a rousing speech. The passion in his words radiating and somehow turning the comfortably warm room into a furnace.
She feels like she’s intruding, like she doesn’t belong here in this room of good food and humour, like she shouldn’t be seeing this side of him.
Sirius Black should not be chatting idly with House elves over the politics of buttercream. He should be vindictive and cruel and certainly not funny.
“Ganache is the emperor of desserts, Wimble, and you know it,” Sirius declares, and he doesn’t sound like he’s joking at all. “Buttercream? It’s nothing but a sycophantic plebeian’s frosting.”
Wimble, wide-eyed and twitchy, nods as if Sirius’s decree is law. “Yes, Master Sirius, but buttercream—many witches and wizards love it. It has… supporters.”
Alexandra hesitates in the doorway, weighing the pros and cons of retreat, she considers setting fire to the room and watching as it goes down in flames, but swiftly decides against it. The bastard probably knows an extinguishing charm or two- considering the amount of fire related mischief he’s gotten up too.
Before she can turn away and limp back to her bedroom, she becomes suddenly aware of the weight of a pair of sharp grey eyes on her face. She can’t do anything but glare back and she tries to kick herself out of whatever stupor he’s got her in but she can’t. The medicine must be weakening her senses; either that or he's successfully mastered mind control.
The latter is looking more and more reasonable.
“Merlin Garnier, you look awful,” he says, a smug grin spreading across his face. His voice purposefully takes on a tone of false concern. “Did dad not send you the blood of a muggle to feed off this week? Bit of a shame really, you look much better with a flush in your cheeks.” He sends her a wink and she genuinely weighs up the consequence of leaving his body to rot in an oven for a poor 6th year to stumble across.
Instead she clenches her fists. “You’re insufferable,” she says, stepping into the room despite her better judgment. “Why do you act like the world owes you something every time you see me?”
Sirius’s grin sharpens, cutting and cold. “Maybe it does. Or maybe,” he adds, his tone darkening, “it’s just you I can’t stand.”
He doesn’t hurt her feelings anymore, not genuinely at least. Sometimes she’ll fake a look of upset to see his expression falter and then convince herself she must be delusional. Because its moments like these that prove to her that Sirius Black does not have a single care in the world regarding her. That he’d much rather see himself dead before her happiness.
They’re only a few feet apart now, the air between them charged. Her heart pounds, and she can already tell that her head will hate her for this come the morning, when she is hit with another migraine as a result. She doesn’t care about that right now though.
Wimble coughs nervously, her wide eyes darting between them. “Master Sirius, Miss Alexandra… Kreacher does not like it when lovers quarrel.”
Alexandra snorts, crossing her arms as if to shield herself from the absurdity of it. “Lovers? Disgusting.”
Sirius’s laugh is sharp and disdainful, and his eyes have a look of real disgust at the preposition. He looks like a Black right now, he mimics Narcissa’s look of outrage all too well. “ Don’t flatter yourself.” He gestures to her with exaggerated revulsion. “You think I’d ever—what? With you? Please.” He scoffs, his voice turning icy. “You’re unnatural. Your whole family is.”
The words land like a slap. And she clenches her jaw against the sting of it. Its more a blow to her pride than her feelings. Wimble shouldn’t have to hear any of this.
“At least I’m not playing pretend,” she shoots back, her voice shaking with restrained fury. “Unlike the lot of you.”
Its an open ended statement and a rather odd one at that. She thinks she can get away pretending she means something else, but the timing is against her and so is her own appearance. She is wearing a hospital gown, and Sirius seems to notice that too.
He freezes. The color drains from his face, and his cocky smirk vanishes like a snuffed-out flame. She wants to make a comment about the irony of his own pale complexion when he lunges forward to grab her wrist with a startling force. He’s terribly strong and she has to bite her lip to stop herself from crying out.
“What do you know about that?” he demands, his voice low and careful. His grey eyes are almost black, he doesn’t reveal anything. A wall has gone up, he has caged her like a fox might do a rabbit.
He’s scared.
“Let go of me, Black,” she snaps, trying to twist free, she has the upper hand now, no matter how hard he might force a tip in the scales.
“Answer me!” he hisses, his face inches from hers now, his breath ragged. His strength is terrifying, complimentary to his build as a beater. He won’t go any further than this however, he is not that kind of evil. “If anyone finds out—”
She interrupts, her voice laced with defiance and a bit of a smirk. “What? What would they think if they knew about Lupin and his little… problem?”
She feels a pang of guilt at bartering Remus’ condition the way one would a robe at a flea market, but the satisfaction she gets from the way his face drops and his posture droops is refreshing enough to allow her to live with it.
It’s interesting how his eyes change colour in the light, they swirl like a tempestuous sea now, conflicted and desperate. She is an experienced sailor tonight. She will beat out the waves with her ship of sheer willpower.
She frees herself from his grip when the realisation hits him and he lets go. “You don’t understand,” he says, his voice trembling in what is undeniable panic. “He’s a good person. He’d never hurt anyone.”
The earnestness in his tone shakes her more than his fury ever could. For a moment, she hesitates, unsure whether to twist the knife or back away. Sirius Black has never been an easy opponent to defeat you see, he claws under your skin for months in excruciating pain only to twang at your heart strings in retribution. She almost feels an obligation to calm him down.
She discards that thought as soon as it enters her mind.
“What do you want?” Sirius asks suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. “What do I have to do to keep this quiet?”
She stares at him, thrown off by the vulnerability in his question. The Sirius Black she knows arrogant, untouchable is gone, replaced by someone stripped bare, someone raw and stressed.
His loyalty to Lupin is unquestionable, he aches as though it were his secret to protect, as though it were him that posed a threat to the student body.
She isn’t sure why she allows him to convince her, perhaps she admires his resolve, perhaps she longs for something of that herself. “You’ll help me,” she says after a long pause, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her chest. “Whenever I need it. No questions asked.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw tightens, and his hands curl into fists at his sides. She can see the gears turning in his head, the war between pride and desperation playing out in his expression. Finally, he nods, but there’s no surrender in his eyes.
“Fine,” he says. His voice is quiet, controlled. Too controlled.
She forgets sometimes that he too is the summation of a pureblood heir, that he too was raised under a stern hand that forces withdrawal of emotion.
He straightens, the storm in his eyes darkening once more. “On one condition.”
She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’re in no position to make conditions, Black.”
He ignores her, stepping closer, she makes an attempt to create some distance but he tails her. “Make an Unbreakable Vow.”
Her breath catches. The words slam into her like a brick wall, stealing the air from her lungs. She stares at him, trying to process the seriousness etched into his face, the icy determination in his eyes. She’s read about the consequences of such an agreement. A violent death promised to those who break it, an even more violent one when done incorrectly.
And yet here he stands, towering over her with a look of arrogance all over his face, speaking of it as though it were nothing else but a nuisance he associates with her.
“An Unbreakable Vow?” she echoes, her voice weaker than she intended.
“Yes,” he says, his tone unforgiving. “If you want to play games, then we do this my way.”
Her heart pounds as the weight of his demand settles over her. This isn’t the Sirius Black she’s used to. This is someone dangerous. Someone who will do whatever it takes to protect what matters to him.
She swallows hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. Her wrist still aches where his fingers had been, a burning reminder of how far he’s willing to go.
She will not show fear today. She will not back down.
“Okay,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.”When?”