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“The fuck are you doing here?”
“Johnny,” you sigh, “watch your language. There are first years here.”
He stares at you. “Hold on, I thought Kyle was supposed to be on prefect duty or whatever—he told me! This morning!”
You snuggle deeper into your outer robe as the chill of the evening settles, looking just as delighted as your nemesis Johnny MacTavish does to be seeing you. “Yeah, well,” you point your wand at him, unamused, “Kyle shouldn’t be telling you who’s on det roster anyways.”
He sneers at you, rolling his eyes, muttering something about brotherly bonding and how that trumps everything. You’d think that now you were all in your seventh year, he’d have grown up a little since the day you first met, but no. Johnny is still the same Johnny that he was back in first year, and you didn’t mean that as a compliment.
You turn to the younger kids who have landed themselves into detention. “Don’t be like him,” you say flatly, pointing at Johnny.
“I’m top of the year, actually,” the Gryffindor says, smugly.
You cup your ear. “Who was it that flunked the last Potions midterm?”
“It’s okay,” Johnny whispers conspiratorially to the rest of the kids, “she failed Charms like a week later.”
“Johnny,” you warn.
He gins at you, leaning comfortably against a pillar. “Just tellin’ the truth. You know, as a good role model and all.”
The few first and second years who don’t know who the two of you are bounce their eyes between the two of you like they’re watching a game of Quidditch, but the rest of the rowdy kids who know exactly who you are resign themselves to your antics.
“Can we get a move on?” A Hufflepuff grumbles. Under his breath, he mutters, “I don’t want to be for the rest of the bloody night listening to them bicker,” but you’re kind enough to ignore it.
“We’re heading down to Price’s,” you say, tucking your wand away. “Johnny, lead the way.”
He frowns. “Why me?”
“Listen to the Head Girl, will you?” you retort.
He rolls his eyes. “Fuckin’ Head Girl, the only thing you could possibly head is that stubborn-arse—”
“Johnny.”
He groans, pushing himself off the marble. “Fine, fine! What, we go down to Price’s to collect some shit on the ground?”
“Please watch your language,” you mutter, taking the rear of the pack as Johnny starts to move. A third year giggles.
Spitefully, Johnny launches into an animated story about the first time you took Care of Magical Creatures together, and how you had, allegedly, “gotten so fucking spooked” that you “shit yer pants”. There are four other students here outside the two of you, and the two first years listen in rapt attention as the third year continues giggling. The fifth and sixth year just throw you wary looks, much more well-versed in your reputation than the younger kids.
“Johnny,” you say calmly, in the middle of his story, “I will hex you.”
“You can try, but we all know your aim is shite.” Johnny shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t even know how you keep up with DADA when you can’t even point straight—”
A bright purple hex flies straight at his face, paralysing his mouth. The first years yelp, and the third year glances at you, suddenly terrified.
“Spells are not permitted to be cast towards other students,” you say to them, just to be clear, “but I’m sure that none of you will report me because Johnny’s an annoying twat. Can someone please make sure that he’s breathing through his nose?”
“He can’t breathe?” a first year squeaks.
“He can try to pass out to get out of detention, but that’s not going to happen on my watch,” you say darkly. The first year sidesteps so there’s more space between the two of you. “Anyways!” You clap your hands together cheerfully. “Johnny, you’re mute, not petrified. Keep moving.”
He shoots you a glare, but dutifully treks down to Price’s hut. He flips you the bird for extra measure, but you just smile at him and twirl your want between your fingers. With Johnny’s mouth sewn shut, peace and quiet is all that is in the air when you walk. It’s quite refreshing, actually.
With your dumb luck, you’ve managed to land him in every bloody class except Transfiguration. What makes your life infinitely worse is the fact that you take all the same classes as Johnny does; your so-called academic rival in the Hogwarts gossip mill. Not that you didn’t consider a smart student, because he definitely way, but he sometimes brings it upon himself to jeer at you when he gets one singular mark above you.
Advanced Arithmancy Studies and Alchemy were the worst; there were only like six people total in the class and you ended up sitting next to Johnny solely because everyone else refused to sit next to Johnny on the account that he would never fail to blow shit up. Even in Arithmancy, which is diabolical, because all you do is mathematics!
As if sensing your internal complaining about him, Johnny turns around to threaten you via his gaze. It promises revenge for the hex, but you’re enjoying the silence too much to really care.
Finally, you arrive at Price’s hut. The gruff man swings open the front door to his lodge when Johnny knocks, raising an eyebrow under his boonie hat at the sight of a non-verbal Johnny.
“MacTavish,” he says, amused, “has that Head Girl finally gotten tired of you?”
“Hey, Price,” you say, waving from the back.
His smile widens. “I see. Come inside.”
The six of you fill into his little hut, the younger students careful not to touch anything. The older students are a little more comfortable, admiring the displays placed on top of Price’s fireplace. You quickly wave your wand to release Johnny from the spell, obstructing his chance at getting revenge by approaching the gamekeeper.
Price is amused, definitely noticing the game between the two of you, but he humours you. Johnny mouths, I’ll get you back one day, before turning around with a huff.
“Head Girl,” Price says.
You smile up at him. “Hey, Price. You doing good?”
“Fine.” He peers down at you. “What are you doing here?”
“Detention. Headmistress Laswell tells me that you’re planning to take us all into the Forbidden Forest tonight,” you say, rubbing at your arm in an attempt to generate warmth.
The man eyes you warily. “I thought Garrick would be taking this one.”
“Kyle’s got a family emergency,” you admit, glancing out the window and towards the forest. “Could I just—could you just let me know what we’ll be doing out in the forest? I just—”
“I know,” Price says, nodding gently. “I wouldn’t have proposed it if I knew you were coming. We can still change. I’ll send an owl.”
“No, no, it’s okay.” You swallow. “It won’t be too deep into the forest, will it?”
Price shakes his head. “No dementors so close to the school, guaranteed.”
You nod. “Thank you.”
“We’ll just be picking a few herbs for Roach’s class,” he explains, voice soft, “in the more habitable areas. I’ll be watching the kids, anyone under fifth. I was going to make the prefect supervise sixth and seventh, but you don’t need to worry. You’ve got MacTavish.”
You grimace. “Right.”
“He’s a good wand,” Price points out, “hefty in a fight if anything comes along. My advice would be to stick close to him.”
“How do you know if he’s good in a fight?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. Price just smiles from underneath his beard, giving you a solid pat on the shoulder.
“We’ll leave early so we can get back early,” he promises. Turning away, he doesn’t give you the chance to point out that he hasn’t answered your question, raising his voice as he calls, “MacTavish! Get over here.”
Johnny is rolling on the ground with Price’s massive hellhound, which you’re pretty sure is an actual breed of hellhound that you haven’t got to yet in the syllabus. Whenever asked, Price just smiles mysteriously and says he’s a very special breed, and doesn’t elaborate. That usually makes students hesitant to approach the pet, but Johnny’s always loved playing around with him.
“Hey, old man,” Johnny says, slinking over with Beanie in tow, scratching at the dog’s head. “What’s up?”
“Head Girl here isn’t feeling too well,” Price claims, squeezing your shoulder, “so I need you to keep an eye on a few muppets. Can you do that for me?”
Johnny looks at you weird. “What d’ya mean, not feelin’ too well?”
“Migraine,” you lie, before Price can say anything else. When Johnny looks at Price for confirmation, the groundskeeper just smiles reassuringly.
“Right.” Johnny continues scratching Beanie’s head. “Sure. Whatever. It’s not like yer not gonna be there or anythin’, right?”
“I’ll be there,” Price agrees, “but you might wander a bit too far for safety. The two of you’ll keep an eye on Wilson and Delgado, I’ll watch the Jenkins and Lee. Sounds like a plan?”
Johnny shrugs. Honestly, you don’t know what Price expects from the free-spirited Scot, because if anything, rules and orders are more like suggestions to him. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him not turn up for a detention every day since first year.
“Round up the rest,” Price tells him, “and we’ll head to the Forest.”
Johnny perks up at the mention of the Forbidden Forest. Then he narrows his eyes, obviously remembering what’s so special about this year, and he glances at you briefly. Then he shrugs again, this time more to himself, and he dart back to the other side of the hut to corral the rest of the kids. When you turn to exit the hut, Price holds you back with a firm hold on your shoulder.
“You can cast a Patronus?” he asks, seriously.
“Yeah.” You nod tentatively. “In class.”
He nods. “I want you to stick close to MacTavish, you hear?”
“God, please,” Johnny complains, siddling up beside you, “did you not see her hex me on the way here? Sic her on me and you won’t have any flesh left of me, I’m tellin’ ya.”
“Watch over everything,” Price orders, swatting at the back of Johnny’s head. “And that includes the Head Girl—as much as you want to hex her back. Keep these childish plots within castle grounds, understood?”
“Aye,” Johnny groans, pulling a funny face at you before he leaves with the rest of the students in tow.
You can’t help but chortle at the sight of his twisted features. Price gentle pushes you towards the door, unsticking you from the floor, and you follow the last first year out of the hut and back into the cold.
The sun is setting, dying the sky a beuatiful orange. You just hope that you can complete tonight’s detention session before it gets completely dark.
“Alright, get a move on!” Price barks, startling all the younger kids. “Those moonroses aren’t going to bloom for long!”
The fifth year splutters, “What? Don’t they only bloom at dusk and dawn?”
“So get a move on or you’ll miss the window,” Price instructs, with no sympathy, “and then you might be able to help weed my garden instead of lay around when the dementors are floating around. Let’s go!”
Johnny shoots you a few looks that he probably thinks you don’t clock, but you ignore him in the favour of keeping your breathing even as you all make your way down into the forest.
The thing is, dementors aren’t supposed to be around Hogwarts. In fact, they should be back where they live, at Azkaban, not anywhere near innocent kids. But since one of those dark wizards escaped, with every intention of going back to his previous life of serial killing, the school’s been on high alert.
You don’t really know why Hogwarts in particular is so pressed about the entire thing, but the Ministry of Magic insisted on having extra protection, even though you’re pretty sure Headmistress Laswell protested against it. But since the arrival of your new…protective detail, the Headmistress has been making sure to have weekly check-ins to make sure you aren’t deteriorating.
Not that you would ever let something like that affect your academic achievements, of course.
“Um, miss,” a first year says, tugging at the corner of your sleeve gently, “what does a moonrose look like?”
You stare down at her. She’s got a round face and her hair is in two pigtails that completes the whole Hufflepuff look. “It looks like a rose,” you start, but Johnny cuts in, throwing an around around your shoulders.
“It’s just a silver rose, you can’t miss it,” he says loudly, pulling you towards him. “I’m also the best person to ask, since, y’know, I actually scored higher in Herbology last semester?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying your hardest not to sigh as you shoot the first year an apology through your eyes. “Johnny,” you say, trying to stay calm, “let me go.”
He does, backing away as he holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, look, I’m not here to annoy you or anythin’, not really. It’s just an added bonus. Just wanted to know why you’re so spooked about the Forest? Them dementors gettin’ to you?”
“Johnny,” you say pointedly, “that’s enough.”
He frowns, narrowing his eyes. Then he pursues his lips in that familiar way when he struggles in Arithmancy, and you feel like a very enigmatic riddle all of a sudden.
“Just around here,” Price calls, “pick as many as you can see. Don’t stray off too far, or else you’ll get another detention.”
“Can he even give out detentions?” the sixth year grumbles, but obediently drops to her knees to pick at the grass below.
“Dunno,” the fifth year mumbles, crouching beside her. “Wanna test the theory?”
“Please don’t actively try to earn another detention,” you say, tiredly.
Both look up at you innocently, blinking with wide eyes. “What?” the fifth year says. “We would never.”
“Cross my heart,” the sixth year agrees.
“Johnny, pick some moonroses,” you order, before plopping yourself down on a nearby patch of dry grass to keep an eye on them. Johnny rolls his eyes, but does as you say, gently ushering the fifth and sixth year to do the same, clambering on the dirt ground to pick at the semi-glowing silver plants that Price wants.
Thankfully, since you weren’t technically a student in detention, you didn’t have to participate. Thus, you pull out a small book that you kept tucked on the inside of your robe, flipping it open to the page you last read.
The sun was still out, so you didn’t need to lumos just yet. Still, you kept your wand within reach, getting comfortable as you lean against the trunk of the tree, settling into the peaceful fresh air of the forest.
Johnny definitely shoots you glares from where he’s getting dirt under his fingernails, but you ignore him happily.
When you complete a chapter, you’re almost completely relaxed. You’ve almost forgotten the whole dementor thing, too engrossed in the text, almost imagining yourself back in your dorm and tucked under your sheets. What’s even better is that your roommate isn’t there either, and neither is her absolutely horrific snoring—she’s a great person, really, but you can’t read when she’s in the room.
Johnny comes running up to you once the sun sets and dusk fully sets in, lumos already on the tip of his wand. He kicks are your legs urgently.
“Have you picked a whole bag yet?” you ask, flipping a page.
“The fuckin’ Slytherin has disappeared,” he says.
Your blood freezes. “ What? ”
“I don’t know,” he says, genuinely looking distraught, body tense and wand gripped tightly as if he’s about to duel you right then and there, “but I was helping that Puff pull this bloody weed or somethin’ out of the ground and when I stood back up, he was fuckin’ gone. You didn’t see him leave?”
Although you had been reading, you were also paying attention. You noticed every time Johnny milled from the left of your vision to the right, and every time his laugh echoed in the forest.
“No,” you say, fear trickling in, “does Price know?”
“I came to tell you first.”
“Okay,” you quickly stand, tucking your book away to exchange it for your wand, “go tell Price now. I’m going go see if I can find any tracks—when was the last time you saw him?”
“Like ten minutes ago.” Johnny grabs your arm before you can start running. “You sure you’re okay to go?”
You’re not okay. But that doesn’t matter. “He’s a fifth year who hasn’t learnt how to cast a Patronus yet,” you hiss, “the earlier someone gets to him, the better. There are dementors roaming right now, Johnny.”
“I know,” Johnny frowns, “that’s why I asked—”
“Go tell Price. Then come looking for me. Punctus locus, ” You wave your wand haphazardly, pointing at yourself and then at Johnny. He doesn’t flinch from being pointed at with your wand, but he looks at you quizzically. “It’s just a locating spell,” you explain, “so you know where I am. It’ll be more obvious when I’m further away.”
He stares at you. “The fuck do you pull these weird spells from?”
“Just go tell Price we’re missing one, and get the Hufflepuff back towards the ground. Don’t come after me unless you’re with Price, got it?”
“I don’t think that you goin’ alone is such a good idea—”
“Johnny, I can cast a Patronus,” you say steadily. “Can you?”
He’s silent. You know that the only time you had been trained to do so was in DADA, and none of the kids had really experienced enough fear to feel the innate desire to have a protector. Having happy memories wasn’t enough; you needed to be desperate enough for someone or something to protect you for the Patronus to come out.
“Stay safe,” he says, finally, “and don’t go too far.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off, “when did you ever start worrying about my wellbeing?”
His frown intensifies, but you’re already pulling out of his grasp and casting another locating spell. Conjuring up the image of the Slytherin in your mind, you try your best to create a full image of him as you cast the charm, but all you get is a vague direction and no sense of distance.
He could be a hundred meters away, or an entire kilometer. But the faster you move, the less space he’ll be able to put between the two of you.
And so you run.
You tear through the woods, lumos showing you your every step. You try not to stray too far from the edge of the forest, constantly turning to the left and to the right, combing through a stretch before deciding to go in deeper. Soon, the sun has completely disappeared from the sky and the last remnants of sunlight is disappearing, throwing the forest into the dark. It’s when you finally realise you can’t see past your own small sphere of light that you start to slow down, wary.
“Wilson!” you yell, cupping your mouth to increase the volume. “Wilson!”
There’s no response. Only the gentle, cold breeze as it slips under your outer robe.
“Fuck,” you mutter, and set off running again. This time, you don’t delve in deeper, or at least you don’t think so, because your sense of direction is getting skewed as the light continues to diminish. You force yourself to pour more effort into your lumos to illuminate further, but even that has a limit.
“Fuck,” you repeat.
There’s a muffle yell from towards the right, at two o’clock, and you whirl around, halting as you listen again.
Yup. Definitely. There’s someone over there.
Or it could be a phantom noise. You’ve definitely had your share of those before.
But then the voice gets louder, more panicked, and you’re bolting in that direction instantly. Lumos flickers uncertainly as you try to decide whether or not to keep the light on, but it finally stays on when you burst into a small clearing and find Wilson backed up against a tree and a dementor sucking his soul out.
“ Expecto patronum!” A small wisp of silver bursts from your wand, struggling to create a form. It barrels into the dementor, making it hiss, but causes no significant damages as it whirls around to face you.
Okay. Great. Interrupting it. That’s surely a good sign, it means it wouldn’t be actively sucking out Wilson’s soul.
But then a chill settles over your body, and you snap your head around to see another dementor approaching from the behind. The chill is so familiar—too familiar—and all you can do is stare in horror as it approaches, hand shaking with your wand outstretched.
Wilson screams, snapping you out of your reverie. You screech it again, “ Expecto patronum,” trying to envision any sort of positive memory. You end up thinking about hexing Johnny to be quiet, and this time, the silver comes out a little stronger.
It manages to ward off your dementor, but Wilson’s still struggling, losing more energy as his dementor keeps trying to take his soul. You barge forwards, wand raised, arm already heavy from fatigue, and you try again.
This time, you try to think of the time you had won dux of the year last year, beating Johnny by a hair, and your Patronus takes a rough shape of a glob instead of a wisp. It barrels straight into the dementor, making it hiss as it recoils, and you quickly haul Wilson onto your shoulders.
“C’mon,” you mutter, “work with me here. Wilson!”
He’s out of it. You can’t carry him all the way back.
“ Periculum,” you hiss, shooting a red column of sparks up into the sky. “Okay, okay, surely, someone will get here in time—”
The temperature drops another few degrees. You’re petrified to the spot, Wilson weighing you down as you slowly look back around to see darkness. If it’s even possible, the shadows seem to thicken, and you swallow, casting a lumos.
There are more of them. You can’t tell how many there are, but they’ve got you cornered.
You swallow, readying your wand. You inhale shakily, mouth already forming the shape of an ‘e’ when you’re struck with a particular memory: visiting your mother in Azkaban.
The dementors were everywhere then, too, you remember. They had been crawling around you, almost enticed by you every time you showed up to visit, and a sympathetic Auror would always accompany you to make sure your soul wasn’t sucked away. The Auror would always put a hand on your shoulder to make sure you wouldn’t run off, even doing so when you were older and no longer a child, and you’d remember the chill of the prison every time you saw your mother through the bars.
They let her see you once every year in an attempt to entice her to give up information of where her victims were. She would reveal a name and a location every time she saw you.
“ Expecto patronum,” you whisper. Nothing comes out.
The dementors get closer. You can almost see your mother’s deliriously wide smile staring at you through the dementors faceless faces. “C’mon,” you say, almost pleading with your wand. “Please. Expecto patronum!”
Nothing happens. You see the dementor reach out, but you feel your mother’s cold fingertips caress your cheek.
Give it to me, dear, your mother says, enticingly. Give it to me.
Your mother killed eighteen people. Three of them were children your age.
Give it to me, yes, I know you can.
You drop to your knees, wand slipping out of your hand. You remember each and every one of their faces, their names, and their families, and you wonder how you even managed to conjure up even the incorporeal patronus in the first place.
What happy memories did you have again?
—
All you remember is a silver, white bird cutting across your vision.
—
“It’s been days,” your mother whispers, absolutely distraught. “When is she going to wake up?”
Your uncle reaches for her shoulders reassuringly. “It’s okay. You know what a spell like that can do to a child. She just needs some time to recover.”
Your mother presses her lips to your forehead, a sensation that you register but can’t quite place in your half-conscious state. “Have they found him? The man who did this?”
Your uncle is silent.
“He killed my husband and hurt my child,” your mother says, tightly. “What are the bloody Aurors doing?”
“Everything they can,” your uncle says gently. “It’s hard to catch a man like that.”
“He hurt my baby,” your mother cries, angry. Quieter, she repeats, “My baby .”
You can’t remember the rest of the conversation. You fall back asleep.
—
“Uh,” Johnny says, “so I brought you some notes from class.”
A beat of silence.
“This is so fuckin’ weird,” he laughs in disbelief, “because normally you’re the one I steal notes from. You always say my handwriting is dogshite anyways, so I dunno, you probably won’t even look at them. But, y’know, thought you wouldn’t like missin’ out on class, so yeah. Notes.”
He pauses for another moment. He shuffles awkwardly, before patting your hand on the hospital bed with stiff movements. “Anyway. Get well soon. Or whatever.”
—
What is a happy memory, exactly?
When you first conjured up a Patronus, or a semblance of one in the form of a silver wisp at the rebellious age of fourteen, it had been your tenth birthday. You had tried very hard to dredge up memories of your mother actually being your mother and your father being alive so you could enter into Azkaban without an Auror looming over your shoulder.
Now, though, you can’t remember those details anymore. Every memory of your mother smiling and laughing has been replaced by her haunting giggles and completely psychotic expressions. Ever since that one visit without an Auror in your fourth year, you had never visited her without one ever again.
She had grabbed you, almost nibbing at your face. “Give it to me,” she had giggled, “give it to me! Your soul! Your soul!”
She had held you in place for a dementor to find you. Thankfully, an Auror had been standing just outside, and she had rescued you before you could get your soul sucked right out of your body, with your mother holding you in place.
Headmistress Laswell had given you a week off of school for that. Then she had assigned you extra self-defence lessons, not taking no for an answer.
Maybe that’s why you couldn’t conjure up a proper Patronus. You had been lying, somewhat, to Johnny when you told him you could; you couldn’t make one that came as an animal, never having the strength and skill to create one so advanced. Laswell had always reassured you that it was normal, that, having gone through the trauma you did, it was natural for you to struggle with creating a strong Patronus.
Plus, she had added, it was rare for teenagers to be able to summon one anyways. You knew she was just trying to comfort you, but it had placated you at the time.
Maybe it shouldn’t have. Otherwise you wouldn’t have overestimated your ability.
Or maybe you were capable of casting a Patronus, like she said. On paper, you had the academic potential, and you should be able to cast spells of that level at your current capability. But the thing you lacked was the happiness. Maybe that’s it.
Or was it the empty gape in your chest where your soul should reside talking?
You don’t know anymore.
Were you dead?
—
Johnny is there when you wake up. It’s in the middle of the night, probably sometime close to three A.M. by the looks of the clock in the Hospital Wing. He’s sitting in the chair beside your bed, snoring loudly, not caring that you’re not the only patient there.
It’s the boy in the bed beside you that notices you’re conscious, actually. “Holy fuck,” he says, incredulous, “you’re awake?”
“And you’ve got a broken arm,” you reply. “Quidditch?”
The boy uses his not-broken arm to smack at Johnny. “Brother—brother, look! She’s up!”
Johnny startles awake, wand whipping out to almost gouge the kid’s eyes out before his eyes land on you. You’re pretty sure you sport an unimpressed look, but his whole body depresses in relief as he slumps back into his seat.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he says, breathless, “look at you.”
“What are you doing here?” you demand, because it’s probably a school night. “Why aren’t you back in your dorm? What about class tomorrow?”
“First off, it’s a fuckin’ Saturday, so calm yer tits. Also, it’s been two months since you’ve first laid down in that fuckin’ bed, how do you have the bloody energy to start yappin’ like crazy?” Johnny stares at you in disbelief. “It’s like you never got your dementor kiss or anythin’.”
Your energy drains as quickly as it came. “It happened? I don’t have my soul anymore?”
“Nah,” Johnny leans forwards, squeezing your hand, “we got to you in time. Hey, did you know that my Patronus is a one of those birds from back home? Big motherfucker.”
“Language, Johnny,” you say, automatically.
His grip tightens on you. “Good to have you back,” he replies, something light and unburdened in the way he moves. You hadn’t even noticed that he was holding your hand, the sensation so familiar that you can’t help but wonder what exactly’s happened in the past two months.
“Two months?” you say, quietly.
“Two months,” Johnny confirms, before he realises the panic arising in your eyes. “It’s okay though! I took notes fer you and everythin’—it’s all organised in that way you like, you know, by chapter an’ shit, so you won’t be far behind.”
“So it’s February,” you say, closing your eyes.
“Yeah?” Johnny raises his eyebrows. “Exams are kinda far, if that’s what you’re stressed about.”
“I missed the visit,” you whisper, “I’ve missed a visit before.”
Johnny is silent for a moment. Then, gently, he asks, “Your mum?”
Your eyes snap open. “How do you know about that? Who told you?”
“No one!” Johnny raises his free hand up in surrender. “Promise! In fact, no one would tell me what the hell was goin’ on so I did some diggin’ of my own. Wanted to know why you were so spooked about them dementors, that’s all.”
You swallow. Suddenly, it’s as if your identity has changed. You’re no longer you, the academic rival, the kid who stays up too late making her notes look nice. Now, you’re the serial killer’s daughter, who avoids sleeping at night so nightmares don’t arise.
Johnny shrugs. “Shoulda told me you had a real fuckin’ reason to be spooked. Never would’ve let you go in by yerself.”
“Johnny,” you say, surprised.
“Look, I know that was a serious violation of privacy,” he continues, not hearing you, “and I get it if you’re mad. But seriously, give a guy a head’s up, will you? It’s not good form when he has to find you on the fuckin’ ground with your soul getting sucked out of your body because let me tell you, that was fuckin’ terrifying.”
“Johnny,” you say, this time louder.
“And honest—I really didn’t think I was gonna make it in time. No one had ever taught be how to make one of them Patronuses either, so like, that was terrifying. Didn’t know what I was thinking about, anyways. Tried to think about that one time that bastard from Ilvermorny transferred in and you and I both squashed him during our end of years. Huh. What a time.”
“Johnny,” you interrupt, “thank you.”
“So yeah, real fun, that time. Must be weird for you, since it might not feel like two months ago—sure felt like two months ago to me, even though I’ve been thinking about it every day—wait. What did you say?”
“Thank you,” you repeat, amused.
Johnny coughs. “Right. Yeah. Uh. You’re welcome?”
“You thought of that time we beat the American idiot to conjure up a fully corporeal Patronus?” you tease, raising your eyebrows. “That’s quite a happy memory.”
“It was the first time you and I had worked together on somethin’, I dunno,” Johnny shrugs, “I just remembered that study session in the library.”
“Oh.” You stare at him. “I remember.”
“You do?” Johnny smiles. “Yeah, that was pretty fun.”
“Fun,” you echo.
You do remember the study session. It had been, admittedly, one of the more enjoyable moments that you share with Johnny. Before you can comment on it, a wave of nausea hits you, and you groan in discomfort.
Johnny is instantly by your side, cradling your head with his free hand. He gently props you upright, brushing a strand of hair out of your eyes. “I’m gonna get the nurse,” he says, quietly.
“Johnny,” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks,” you murmur.
He smiles. “All good.”
“Fuckin’ hell,” the boy with the broken arm mutters, “this is so painful to watch.”
Johnny stands, but he pulls your arm up with your interlaced fingers. It’s as if he’s only just noticing that you’re holding hands, dropping it with the wildest blush, rushing to clear his throat before speaks. “I’m just—I’m just gonna go get the nurse,” he says, almost toppling his chair over in his haste to leave.
The boy sitting on the bed next to you stares at you until you turn your head over to meet his gaze. “What?” you mutter.
“You gonna ask him out or whatever?” The boy sniffs. “He’s too pussy to ask you out. I’m pretty sure he’s intimidated by you, but like, in a good way.”
“What?”
The boy, who is clearly no older than a third year, nods at you encouragingly. “Oh yeah, he’s like my brother that one time my brother was crushing on a girl. It’s honestly painful for everyone around. So you gonna help a buddy out and ask him out or what?”
“You’re not my buddy,” you say, frowning. Is it your nausea or is it him who’s making your migraine worse?
“Not me,” he says like you’re dumb, “literally everyone else.”
You shake your head. “I don’t know what you’re on about—”
Johnny comes back with the nurse, and you cut yourself off before he can hear your conversation. He glances between the two of you. “What are the two of you talking about?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly.
Johnny frowns, but quickly reclaims his seat beside you as the matron fusses over you. Without thinking, you reach for his hand, feeling a loss of his touch. He gently slips his into yours, almost subconsciously, and you swear you see the matron’s quirk a smile at the sight.
He squeezes your hand.
Maybe you can do this. Thinking about that study session, you realise, slowly, that maybe you are capable of having happy memories.
You just need to make them.
You squeeze his hand back.