A Selfish Illness
It was easier than he thought it would be. Unlike before when he'd injure himself to redirect his body's focus, Grey had comprised a much more effective way of staunching his visions.
When a headache came, he would focus on the force of the pain, and then, almost like swallowing water, he'd push it down. It took many weeks of trial and error and worst-case scenario injuries. But by half term, he had pretty much nailed his technique.
Over those few weeks, Grey had also been filling Richard in on everything that had occurred as a result of his foresight. Richard was very concerned about Grindelwald's interest but Grey frequently reassured him that Hogwarts was the safest place they could be.
The newspapers had been full of the dark wizard's endeavours of late. Grindelwald was carving his way through Europe leaving mass muggle and seer bloodline casualties in his wake. The ministry seemed to have caught on to his search and it was rumoured that the few seer bloodlines left in England had been given various forms of protection. Grey, unlike everyone else, was not scared for his safety. If Grindelwald did ever connect him to the prophecy, he would be thoroughly disappointed to find a perfectly untalented wizard.
But he was sure Richard and Dumbledore were getting suspicious by week four of no visions since the thestrals. Lo and behold, as the two revised in the library one evening, the conversation returned once more to the topic of Grey's visions.
"So, I reckon your episodes are prompted by something," Richard mentioned randomly after a long period of silence.
"Oh?" Responded Grey half-heartedly.
He hated talking about this and did not look up from his herbology notes.
"Well, before your first, you touched Grindelwald's symbol, then had a vision of him," Richard explained, "Then before the accident, I mentioned Derric and you said you and Dumbledore had been talking about thestrals and then the first thing you saw was thestrals in the fourth one. It would make sense."
Grey couldn't deny the logic of the theory but he thought desperately of any kind of flaw that would add to the believability of him not being a seer.
"What about the second vision? I can't think what prompted that," Grey whispered somewhat anxiously.
The action hurt his throat. He'd felt very groggy over the last few days and was positive he had a cold coming.
Richard looked thoughtful, "You said the headache flared when you looked at Dumbledore?" He inquired.
"Yes, but Dumbledore is hardly linked to Grindelwald is he?" Grey scoffed.
Richard was stumped at his words.
"No, I suppose not. Anyway, how come you haven't had any visions lately, every book I've read has said visions increase in frequency after their initial manifestation."
Grey coughed slightly, peering at Richard in his peripherals.
"I dunno," He shrugged dismissively.
Richard was observing him with a look similar to the one the matrons would use when they knew Grey had done something wrong. His throat itched and he coughed a few more times earning him a sharp glance from Madame Lovegood. Tiredness was starting to weigh heavily on his eyelids.
"I think I'm going to call it a night." He muttered, returning his book to the shelf.
Richard fixed him with a confused stare.
"It's only 7:30?" He protested.
"Sorry, I'm knackered." Grey dismissed and he sent his friend a quick smile before shouldering his bag and leaving the library.
Trudging down the corridors, his stomach kept twisting uncomfortably. He must be coming down with something, he thought bitterly. On top of exam stress and everything else, that was just what he needed.
A good night's sleep would help. But it took him hours, like every night, to actually get off to sleep. And his slumber was filled with disturbing dreams. They no longer contained Credence but snippets of the interior of the house from the end of his last vision.
He'd concluded it was definitely a wizard settlement and he'd glimpsed a forest out of a window one night. His curiosity was prompted by the fact that the house exploded at the end of every dream. Maybe if he knew where it was he could warn whoever lived there.
But when he awoke, sweating and wracked with anxiety every morning, Grey had to remind himself they were just dreams and dreams weren't visions. They were just dreams.
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Over the next few days, Grey's illness only seemed to intensify. He was practically forcing himself through every lesson. The fatigue was worse than the coldness and the chest pain and coughing because it made every task ten times more complicated. On top of trying to ward off his now tri-weekly vision headaches, Grey was absolutely shattered. After a particularly horrendous herbology class in the humid greenhouses, Richard practically dragged Grey up to the hospital wing.
Nurse Sullivan, who had been tending to a few bedridden students, hurried over to greet them.
"Ah, Mr Myers, Mr Willow, how can I help?" He asked briskly.
Richard grabbed Grey's arm and heaved him away from the door he'd been trying to sneak through.
Sullivan grimaced at the sight of him, "Yes, you do look rather pale. Symptoms?" He rambled.
Grey was reminded of his first trip to the hospital wing that year.
"I'm exhausted, my throat hurts, my chest hurts, I'm coughing, I'm sweating, I'm tired, I'm cold." He listed in a monotone voice.
Richard's hand still held his arm and the touch was comforting.
"Sounds like a nasty cold, you're not the first Mr Willow."
Sullivan busied himself finding a bottle amongst his various remedies. Eventually, he poured a goopy black substance onto a spoon and handed it to Grey. The liquid moved ominously on the utensil. Grimacing, Grey swallowed the acidic remedy but the relief he expected never came. Aside from leaving a sour taste in his mouth, the medicine had done nothing.
"Better?" Asked Sullivan, his yellow eyes briefly scanning the boy.
"Yes."
The lie flew instinctually from his lips. Yet he was glad it did. Telling Sullivan the truth had started Dumbledore's suspicions and this whole seer business. It was irrational and reckless but denying how awful he still felt brought Grey a little comfort. Though, it was hard to ignore the stifling pain that relentlessly constricted his lungs as they left the hospital wing.
"I'm not stupid you know," Richard commented unexpectedly.
"I never said you were?"
Grey was grateful when Richard paused mid-stride because it gave him a chance to rest.
"You're still ill." His friend stated bluntly.
"What? No-"
But his denial was cut short by a coughing fit. Grey cursed at his body's betrayal.
"This isn't a normal illness, we should go back."
"No." Grey insisted.
Richard glared at him.
"I'm going to ask you something and don't you dare lie to me."
"Ok?"
"Are you suppressing your visions?" Richard asked sternly.
How did he know? How was this even related to his illness? Pausing, Grey tried to fathom a response that wasn't technically a lie but Richard seemed to grow frustrated.
"Grey?" He exclaimed, his voice raised.
"Fine! Yes." The Ravenclaw admitted, his tone laced with annoyance.
"I knew it," Richard sighed, "As soon as you got ill and the lack of visions, I knew it."
"How?" Grey asked quietly.
"Rhackam's book. There was a chapter on repressing. It causes this kind of illness you idiot."
They started walking again, slower this time.
"You read the whole book?" Grey raised his eyebrows.
Richard turned around so quickly that Grey jumped back. His friend's eyes were blazing with an emotion he didn't recognize.
"Of course I did!" Richard hissed, "Because unlike you Grey, I'm actually worried about this whole thing. I care about you and unlike you, I want to understand it so I can help!"
As he finished his rant, Grey resisted the urge to snap back at his friend. Instead, he dropped his eyes.
"I'm sorry." He muttered.
Richard sighed, "Don't apologize, just stop suppressing your visions. It's making you ill and it will only make you iller if you continue."
Grey didn't care how ill he got, but he did care about Richard.
"Alright, I'll stop." He lied softly.
It was selfish, but he didn't want to see any more death. Grey could lie for Richard's sake, and get iller for his.