Chapter 1
There’s an uneven amount of colored tiles on the floor. The ratio’s off. It’s horrible. Day ruining.
And the chair is wobbly, the fuck? How does that even happen, are the legs the same length?-
“Albus.”
He looks up. Oh shit, he forgot he was in a meeting. There’s more pressing matters going on in his brain. “Yes.”
“You spaced out for a minute. What are you thinking of?”
Oh great, they want him to speak. Hold on, give her something stale, “Just tired I think. Didn’t really fall asleep until late.” Or at all maybe.
She’s not convinced; she’s never convinced. Her and the whole sea of eyes she brings with her; present in the room or not. Right now there’s thirty-two pairs but that can’t be right. Some look bored but most are angry, they try to meet his but Al won’t let them. He never does.
The pinch he gives himself is discrete, right under his knee. It used to be scarred from this practice.
Doctor Simmons sighs. Al really does think she’s nice, even if she’s always asking his least favorite questions. “You know, you go home tomorrow.” She says.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Well you haven’t brought it up all session. I would’ve thought you'd be excited.” She says.
“I’m so happy,” Al says quickly. If it’s what she wants to hear fuck it. “Really it’s been, erm, pretty lonely.”
The truth is Al may seriously prefer to eat glass than to go back home, let alone school. Half of the general population is under the impression that he’ll snap back into reality illness free. The other half is waiting on their tip-toes, practically vibrating at the prospect of another meltdown of his. Even with positive letters being sent back and forth with his family, he’s still not sure what side they’re on.
Doctor Simmons nods, she always eats it up whenever he plays the lonely card, “That’s understandable. This experience can be very isolating.”
It’s actually been the opposite. Since his maybe accidental overdose he’s almost never alone. People wake him up in the morning, walk him to meals, watch him eat. Even when he pisses the door is cracked. He hates it. Reminds him that no one trusts him anymore.
In his quietest hours, when it’s lights out for everyone in the facility, and he can still make out the eggshell white of the walls and ceiling like a beacon in the night, he tries to make himself as small as possible. Puts himself in a ball, one arm across his chest, the other a hand wrapped around the throat. He wonders then, when the pills he’s swallowed finally lull his mind into a foe silence, vision in all three eyes dulled, if he could will himself to die.
It’s the floor, mate. Did they not have a pattern plan in place before they started laying tile? It’s fucking stupid, he thinks, it’s like they wanted it all to be ruined-
“Hey, Albus.”
The teen’s head snaps up once more. He compares himself briefly to a dog being called and decides that he’s not nearly as smart.
Doctor Simmons isn’t stupid enough to think he is, but she’s also probably the most excited that he’s leaving. She’s been so eager to get him in a strong mental place, always pushing boundaries, always trying to talk. She wants to pick him up and slam him like the baby bird she thinks he is.
She sighs again, adjusting herself on her non-wobbly chair. “I can see you’re distracted today. Are you feeling anxious?”
Perpetually. “No.”
“Depressed?”
“Not really.”
“Feeling fuzzy?”
She’s really big on this question. ‘Feeling fuzzy’ was just a nicer way to say he’s not all there. His brain is taking everything to him this morning instead of dragging him away, kicking and screaming. So technically he’s as grounded as he gets these days.
He smiles and hopes he’s showing enough teeth to be believable, “You don’t have to worry about me Doctor Simmons. I am super….” Shit, what’s an engaged word, “Present.”
A raised eyebrow is better than a straight face but it still sucks. She rests a hand on the arm of his seat to soften the blow of it. She really is nice, Al thinks.
“I know you’re worried,” She starts, “I am too. This is not easy stuff Al, integrating back like this is hard work. And I’m worried that when you really start to feel it all that you won’t ask for help.”
“I will.” Al insists.
“Okay,” She says. It’s not okay, she’ll never say it, but Al is never going to be that person. “Okay, I want to believe that. I want you to believe it too.”
Fat chance, “I do,” Al says instead, “If I need help I’ll ask for it. It’s different now, it has to be.”
He wonders why he feels next to nothing watching Doctor Simmon’s face split into a tentative but relieved smile. He’s lying to everyone these days, his doctors, his family, even the people in his head have to sit through rounds of his mental bullshit.
“I believe in you Al.” She says. He wishes she wouldn’t put faith in something already pre-written to fail.
Albus gets out on a friday. It’s warm and obnoxiously sunny, and he’s mildly surprised that both James and Lily came with their parents. He kind of thought maybe they’d have other plans.
Before anyone else has the chance to greet him, Lil is in his space, arms wrapped tight against his frame.
“You’re so skinny!” She shrieks, so, so close to his ear. “What’d they give you? Laxative?”
“Lily.” His mum says. “It wasn’t funny when you said it at home and it’s not funny now.”
“Yeah Lil,” Jamie says walking closer, “If you had to practice, it’s just not good. Now, if you said something like ‘you used so many needles you’re starting to look like one’ that would’ve been way better.”
With the heated glares of both Harry and Ginny Potter lasering him, Jamie cows, “But like, wildly inappropriate. My fault.”
His mum releases her stare to press a lingering kiss to the side of Al’s head, “Hi Pidgeon.” She whispers.
He swallows and wraps his own arms around Lil as greeting. “Hey mum, hi dad.” He looks right in Jamie’s eyes, “Dickhead.”
“This is already going so well,” Ginny says but the sigh is fake. Al can see it in the way she inches closer, casting a hand through her youngest son’s hair. It lingers, “Here I thought you’d come out a model citizen. Instead you’re swearing and looking like you’ve never heard of a hair brush.”
“I was with you until you started pointing at other people’s hair, mum.”
“Yeah y’know, look at your husband.”
The husband in question is silent. Al dares to look at him from the corner of his eyes. Sees nothing. A man with great sadness and disappointment. It’s a far cry from the last time Al’s seen him; face desperate, hands clutching Al’s vibrating frame.
‘This is fine’ Al thinks as his family collectively start to shoo him towards the fireplace and ultimately home, ‘It’s great. They’ve had enough time to process shit. They’re normal and they’re fine. They’re good, it's all good. It’s fine.’
Sometimes, Oftentimes, Al feels like a bee with no stinger. Wasting away the last few hours he has, forced to fly in circles. Doing nothing but dwelling on the one stupid thing he spent his one good hit on. Worthless.
His parents waste no time sitting him down on the couch and talking about rules, shooing his siblings upstairs. He expected this, prepped for it. He still struggles to meet their eyes.
“I know you think this is a punishment,” His mother says. He wishes he could hear her better over the blood rushing in his ears, fuck he missed her voice, “But it’s for your safety. We just want you to get better Al, no hiccups.”
“I understand.” He says. He does. Why would he be allowed to leave the house alone if the first thing he’ll do is find a dealer? Why let the dog out with no collar, no microchip, no nothing?
His parents weren’t expecting this, he can see. The husk of him. No anger or heat. He can’t blame them for the confusion, in the many days, weeks, months before his hospital stay he was an animal. Always on edge, always manic. Quick to bite.
Al aches for it sometimes. Hates himself for doing so.
“We love you Albus,” His mother says, gripping his hand tightly. Her fingers are bone white, “You know that?”
“Yes.”
I’m sorry! He doesn’t say. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sick. I’m fucked. I want to be dead.
He wants his dad to look at him. Wants him to see that Al is just as disappointed about his own presence.
“I love you too.”
Nights are hard with or without padded walls. The pills are doing the best they can with what they got; rolling in his brain and zapping all the bad parts to sleep. Working hard to numb the loudest parts of him. If he were less dulled he’d be angry, now he can do nothing but weep. Silent tears, silent mind, silent mouth. He is nothing without his illness he learns. He has had nothing but time to come to this conclusion.
His cousins aren’t really sure how to act so they don’t. Sunday dinner at his gran’s is not awkward per se, but it’s far from easy. Some of them wait and watch him, waiting for him to crack like he used to. He’s too tired for it all.
Jamie has taken to treating him like glass and also like chewed gum on the bottom of his shoe. Sometimes in the same breath. “Wear some socks in this weather Al, nobody wants to see your nobby ankles, for fuck’s sake.” The older son laughs, shoulder checking past. Five minutes later he is petting his brother’s hair softly, grumbling, “Take my sweater Pidgey, you look cold.”
The younger boy won’t lie, the petting is nice. A reminder of how Jamie has always been there, even at his angriest. If he thinks too much he has to pull away. Ashamed. Al is always thinking too much.
Gran is sweet as always and busy as always. While she scouts for unwilling volunteers for her cooking army, Al takes refuge with his grandad. A very willing distraction.
“Albus,” Arthur breathes, squeezing him tight. Al allows a free conscience for this hug, and tries not to think about how old his grandad is getting. “So good to see you. Four weeks is much too long! Why, I’m afraid if you’d been gone any longer your grandmother would’ve left me for a man who doesn’t talk about whyars so often.”
“Wires.” Al corrects, “I’m not shocked. Who else would tell her all the new happenings on the telly?”
“Oh Roxanne probably, with the way that girl is with her phone. Enough of that though, come over here. I’ve got some new cords I’d like you to look at.”
Al sits under the comfort of his grandad’s presence for most of the night. The older man doesn’t stare, doesn’t ask questions about Al’s weight or the bags under his eyes. He is present. Warm. Al has missed it all, he’s grateful to whoever left out the important details of Al’s departure to the man.
Dinner is everything Al expected it to be. It’s almost cordial but the air is off. Things go south when Hogwarts is mentioned.
“Are you excited for school Al?” His aunt Hermione asks.
Here’s the thing; Al knows it was an innocent question. His aunt has never been cruel to him, and was one of the people who wrote to him the most during his psych ward visit.
Sharks smell blood; however, and Rose Granger Weasley is a fucking megalodon.
“I was going to ask the same thing!” The red-head demurs, “Maybe you can help me study for charms this year, I’ve been meaning to make a new group.”
She knows he failed charms last year. Flunked actually, from missing so many lessons to go get high. It was one of the first signs his parents got. Fucking cunt, “Yeah maybe.” He says, trying not to rise to bait.
The thing about Rose is that they had been very close once. Al used to think of her as a sister, a best friend, a confidant. The problem is she’s too smart, which is bad to have when you’re using and don’t want anyone to know. So, Al bit her too.
In the time between their fallout to now, Rose has learned to bite as well, “Maybe you can invite some of your friends too. Like from Slytherin.”
Classic. Bringing up his house. That has always been a point of contention in the family. “Maybe Rose.”
“I guess, if you won’t be occupied with other activities.” She continues.
“What the fuck does that mean Rose?” Jamie asks, gripping his knife too tight. He was doing so well, talking with Freddie too loud about some game on the radio. Al was hoping he wouldn’t tune in, but here he goes. Al hates him. Loves him more than most things.
“James.”
“No really,” The desi boy says, “I’m just confused about the phrasing.”
“Nobody is saying anything.” Dominique tries. She’s close enough to the arguing party that she feels obligated to intervene. Unfortunately, she’s a little behind on details.
“I just thought maybe he’d join a club,” Rose says, throwing her palms up, “I know you did quidditch for a while, didn’t know if you’d go back,” She says to Al directly.
He did do quidditch. It made his dad happy. It made everyone happy. Unfortunately it fucked with his head, and after one too many falls he was deemed unfit to play.
“You know he can’t do that Rose,” Lily intervenes, “It’s like asking someone with seizures to drive a car.”
“Wait, people with seizures can’t drive?” Freddie asks.
“What’s a seizure?” Lucy whispers to her sister.
Lily looks like she regrets talking. Albus feels the same.
Rose isn’t satisfied, “You don’t have to talk about him like he’s not right there.” She says.
“Kind of like how you’re doing right now?” Jamie growls.
When they start getting too riled up someone older always steps in. Usually it’s Teddy, saving the day with little fanfare and keeping the adults from having to regulate. He’s always made it look so easy, catering to everyone and never looking sad about it. Al aches for Teddy, wishes he was here this very second. Hates him for leaving, for having a life outside of his family. Wants the same thing for himself.
When Al tunes back in, people are shouting. Uncle Ron is offended on his daughter’s behalf and is arguing with his favorite nephew because of it. Al watches him and Jamie fight like borderline strangers while aunt Hermione attempts to calm down a screaming Ginny. Uncle Bill and gran are mitigating the shouts and uncle George looks like he’s trying not to egg them all on. Al’s dad is calm but his jaw is ticked. He’s mad. Lily looks sad. She’s always looking like that lately.
It is impossible not to realize that it’s all Al’s fault. He makes others like this, whether he wants to or not. He is a disease too radical for polite discussion.
Al is a pigeon with dreams of being a tiger. He pecks and yawns and thinks nothing of himself. Flies from danger. Builds crappy nests for his too full family. Al doesn’t want to be tamed and abandoned; he wants a different ecosystem, a better food chain.
“Okay!” He yells. A few times. “Yes, I will join your study group Rose and I’ll learn everything. All of it. And I will join clubs, fuck I’ll make one! I’ll go to every class, I’ll never be late. I’ll make a fuckton of new friends in every house, and I’ll even win the fucking house cup! I will do it all I promise.” He pauses to breathe, his lungs feel full, light with oxygen. Fear. “I will. Watch me.”
His family is silent. Some of them look wary, but surprisingly none look like they want to make fun of him. Even his mother doesn’t say anything about his language now.
It’s how I look, Al thinks wildly, digging into his food, I look like a fucking predator.