Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I will not misbehave.

I will not misbehave.

I will not misbeha-

I start crying. Looking up at Umbridge with tears pooling in my eyes. The entire length of my forearm was dripping in sticky hot blood.

“Ma’am. Please.”

“30 lines Miss Flowers. You’ve barely done 10.”

“Ma’am please.” I manage. “I have anemia.”

“I don’t know what that is, so it must not be real.” She muses, sipping her tea. 3 sugars and a spoonful of milk. The little metal spoon with a cat head at the end taunts me. Teases me like I’m worthless to do anything to stop the assault against my arm.

I mutter, gripping the pen tighter in my hand, tears dripping down to my chin. Falling and then hitting the paper below me.

The words burned themselves into my skin again.

I will not misbehave.

The fresh cut split open beside the others.

My vision swam.

The room seemed suddenly too warm. The pink walls closed in around me, cats blinking lazily from every plate and picture frame. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears. There’s a thump against the cage of my fleshy walls, bones a cage for the volatile beating.

The scratching a trigger in my skull.

Red blood cells don’t just regenerate themselves. Not when you have an iron deficiency.

“Your handwriting is deteriorating, Miss Flowers,” Umbridge said mildly. “Try to take more pride in your work.”

I stared at the page. The letters blurred together.

“Ma'am,” I whispered. “I think I'm going to faint.”

“Nonsense.”

The word barely registered.

My fingers had gone numb. The blood running down my wrist no longer felt hot. It felt distant, as though it belonged to someone else. I attempted another line, but the pen fell out of my hand and rolled aimlessly around the ground. Precariously close to the fireplace.

Umbridge looked annoyed, “Pick that up.”

I pushed my chair back.

The movement made the room tilt violently.

One moment I was standing.

The next, the floor rushed toward me.

A sharp crack echoed through the office as my shoulder struck the carpet.

The last thing I saw before darkness swallowed everything was Umbridge rising from her chair, tea cup frozen halfway to her lips.

For the first time that evening, she looked frightened.

***

George was foaming at the mouth. Fred was trying to hold his brother down by the arm. Dean Thomas, was busy trying to pull George's sleeve- and bring him back down to reality. Pomfrey was tapping her foot repeatedly, arms folded and blocking the doorway.

“LET GO OF ME!”

The entire Hospital Wing turned to stare at him. I sink lower into my bed, pulling the sheets over my chin. I wonder if I can Apparate out of here and back to the Ravenclaw dormroom without causing Pomfrey to demand my immediate return to Recovery Exile.

I’m trying to hide my bandaged arm by tugging on the end of my sleeve.

I want to hide.

I can overhear George yelling at Fred and Dean so unbelievably clearly.

He’s gesturing to the end of the wing, where I am, "They had to give her a Blood-Replenishing Potion!"

Fred is calm. When George is loud, Fred has to go quiet. Or else it would all go to hell from there. I was sure of it.

The cold room starts nipping at my toes. I’ll have to owl Maria and ask her to bring the new pair from the very bottom of my chest.

Dean tries coaxing George out of it, “Mate. We should go. We’re being bloody disrupting.”

"Flowers is bloody anemic!” I swear I can hear the muscles switching in his jaw. Teeth grinding so hard I was worried they were going to crack, “And our Headmistress of bitchiness basically forced her to do self-inflicted blood-letting!"

A collective wince rippled through the Hospital Wing.

Even Pomfrey's expression darkened.

"Mr. Weasley," she said sharply, "lower your voice."

"No." He retorts, immediately. George pointed at me again, eyes swirling with a desire for vengeance- courage was biting him in the ass. "Look at her!"

When courage becomes a fatal flaw, it manifests as recklessness. As careless abandon for prudence and critical thinking. It turns into an instantaneous behavioral pattern of over-confidence with a sense of justice driving all actions. According to Aristotle’s Virtue Ethics that is. And I was the hill that George Weasley was going to die on about the injustice occurring at our school.

I immediately pulled the blankets over my face.

His courage didn’t feel like an honorable thing. It felt like an expose on my own weaknesses. He was trying to swoop in and save me instead of mitigating the tension and just leaving me be.

Pomfrey folds her arms, "Mr. Weasley."

"She passed out!" George yells.

"Mr. Weasley." She tries again. She’s more courageous than George is being right now. She’s trying to toe the line with safety.

"She had to have told Umbridge she was anemic!"

"GEORGE."

That one came from Fred.

The ward fell silent.

George looked ready to maul someone. Fierce, sharp feelings coursing through his body. He was running on body heat. Running on bravery without a sense of self-preservation.

Fred looked exhausted, "You're not helping."

"The hell I'm not." George looked offended.

"You are currently terrifying Flowers." Fred pointed out. I was half-happy that Fred pointed it out. And half-disappointed that it was brought back to me again.

Every head in the room turned toward me. Brilliant, as if that was exactly what I had been wanting. I considered dying. Not permanently. Just for twenty minutes. Long enough for everyone to leave.

George followed their gaze.

His anger vanished instantly.

I was still hiding beneath the blanket.

George mutters an apology, "S-sorry love."

I made the mistake of peeking out.

George looked genuinely horrified at himself. The guilt had set in. Finally. He'd suddenly realized there was an actual person attached to the situation.

"I wasn't yelling at you." He says.

"I know." My voice came out embarrassingly small.

The Hospital Wing was quiet enough for everyone to hear it.

I wished the floor would open.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, "Thank Merlin."

Pomfrey pinched the bridge of her nose, and she pointed to the door, “Out! Out you ruffians.”

No one moved.

“Out,” she repeated.

George switched his tactic to pleading, “Madam Pomfrey-”

"Out."

George opened his mouth.

Pomfrey pointed toward the doors again. The gesture carried enough authority to frighten a dragon.

George closed his mouth.

Fred grabbed his shoulder, "Come on."

"But-"

"Now mate." Dean said, tugging George by the sleeve.

George looked at me one last time. His jaw tightened.

"You shouldn't have had to go through that."

Nobody disagreed.

I stared down at the bandages wrapped around my arm.

Neither should anyone else. But Umbridge hadn't seemed to understand that. Or maybe she had. That was the worse option.

The doors shut behind them. For the first time all evening, the Hospital Wing became quiet in sincerity again.

Madam Pomfrey sat on the edge of my bed. For several seconds she simply looked at me. Then she sighed, "You really told her you were anemic?"

I nodded.

Pomfrey's lips pressed into a thin line. The sort of line adults made when they were trying very hard not to say exactly what they thought. She reached out and held my hand, then used her other hand to cover it entirely. It was warm and loving and suddenly I just wanted to go home.

I’d wanted to go home since they started the Muggle Hunts. Since my Mum and dad became a hot topic item for the High Inquisitors.

"I see."

For a witch who had spent the last hour fussing over me, those two words sounded remarkably like a declaration of war. And I was grateful.

***

The Hospital Wing lights had dimmed by the time Madam Pomfrey finally left. Not too far away, just to the edge of her office. Close enough to hear if anyone needed anything. If I needed anything. But I saw the boy with both his legs in casts from a Quidditch match gone awry and thought he needed more help than I did.

She was also close enough to intervene if George Weasley decided to stage a rescue mission.

Everything about the Hospital Wing was white and clinical. It almost reminded me of my dad’s art studio back home in Ireland.

I missed Ireland. I missed the Cliffs of Moher, especially when Mum and Dad and I and my army of cousins would go with a big basket of Shepherd’s Pie and Boxty. Dad would always sneak a bottle of strawberry juice along too. Even though it gave us all a sugar high.

There was nothing like getting to the edge of the cliffs, sitting on a big solid rock, and swinging feet in the wind. I never wore lipgloss when we went to Moher, because the wind would have my hair sticking to my lips for sure. The thought almost made me laugh.

I shifted to stare at the canopy above my head, white fabric. It was a heavenly contrast to the pink, kitten-ridden catastrophe in Umbridge’s office. There’s no blood quills in the hospital. Because Pomfrey is civilized. And because she’s a Medi-witch. And also possibly my favorite magical person in the world.

My arm throbbed beneath the bandages. The ache wasn't particularly bad anymore. Replenishing potion had seen to that. Everything else still hurt.

I rolled onto my side.

A folded photograph sat on my bedside table. Maria must have brought it from our dorm while I was napping, my socks laid on the counter as well. The toe section a nice warm buttery yellow shade.

Dad had his arm slung around Mum's shoulders. They were both smiling. Mum's hair was blowing into her face. Dad looked halfway through a laugh. The photograph moved gently.

My throat tightened. I thought back to the Muggle Registration Commission. Inspections and whispers and my parents owl-ing me incessantly with questions every week. New detectives came around and kept poking in my family business.

Apparently telling them that my father was a museum curator and my mum was an accountant didn’t remove their suspicious that they were somehow secretly corroborating with Voldemort. My parents didn’t even know who Harry Potter was. My parents also didn’t think twice about magic, since I never cared much to show it off to them.

I pulled the blanket higher. It wasn’t about Umbridge anymore, it was about my home. About Mum insisting I take iron supplements. And Dad checking expiration dates on the potions I would occasionally make, because he’d read in the “So Your Child’s Magical” pamphlet that sometimes potions went bad and their effectiveness could be reduced.

A small chirp and a scratch at the bedpost prompted me to sit up, using my good hand to push up.

A tawny owl was perched on the railing. Large brown eyes watched me. The owl extended a leg. A letter was attached with a thin string.

I set the letter to the side and scratched behind the head of the owl. It squeaked happily before taking off through the singular and circular open window at the top of the stained glass.

The handwriting was unmistakable. Leaning sideways with some smudges. Written far too aggressively.

Flowers,
Pomfrey threatened to poison me if I came back tonight.
Apparently that's "not how medical care works."
Fred agrees with her.
Traitor.
I am still furious.
You are not allowed to apologize for any of this.
I know you're going to try.
Don't.
Get some sleep.
We're handling the rest. And if Dean or Fred won’t help, then I’ll figure it out.
— George
P.S. Fred says I have to stop threatening authority figures.
P.P.S. Fred is threatening authority figures too. So, I don’t know what that git is on about.

I stared at the note. For the first time since collapsing in Umbridge's office, the knot in my chest loosened.

Somewhere beyond the Hospital Wing windows, the castle settled into sleep.

The words sat heavily in my stomach. George meant well. That was the problem.

My parents used to say that courage was only useful if you survived long enough to enjoy the outcome. The High Inquisitors were not dragons. You couldn't simply charge at them. You couldn't hex them and call it a victory. They lived in paperwork. In investigations. In climbing acts of harshness. In stealing away morality and humanity. My family had spent months learning that lesson.

George still thought monsters looked like monsters. I envied him for that.

***

The wind in the Quidditch courtyard is always crisp, like a cool glass of water. Ian, Maria and I sat on the empty stands overlooking everything. The wind could almost compare to the way it was in the Cliffs of Moher. Almost. If I closed my eyes and tried very hard to pretend Ian and Maria were like my overly affectionate parents.

“María~ María~ María~” Ian Castillo sings, his Spanish accent heavy on the r in her name. Maria, being Italian, wasn’t impressed with this kind of flirting. “Ay, María, Dame una oportunidad.” He begs, hands holding his cross necklace tightly.

Maria flicks her black hair in his direction, facing me instead.

“Flowers, are you sure you’re feeling better? It’s only been a week since Pomfrey said you were okay to go back to classes. Watching the Ravenclaw practice match might be a bit much.”

I squeeze my forearm, bandages still covering the expanse of my skin in white cloth.

“Roger asked if I would come.” I explained. I was still a bit tired, but I had been drinking more orange juice in tandem with my iron pills. It helped, for sure.

Ian’s ear for gossip was attuned to the names of everyone in our year.

“Roger? Roger Davies? Prince of the Eagles? King of the Classroom? Master of Chasing and Charming beautiful young ladies? Especially ladies by the name of Flowers?”

Maria pouts, “Oi! Castillo! Cool it.” She clenches her teeth, “Davies told that to you in confidence.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, now I had to deal with this too.

“What exactly did Davies say?” I implored.

Ian clams up.

“Well, Dios mío, uh, let’s just say Davies has taken a liking to you. Something about your calming presence. Kindness. Aura? The likes.”

Maria pulls her hair into a ponytail behind her head, “And now we know Ian Castillo can’t keep a secret for the life of him.” She releases her hair and puts a hand on my back, “Davies has apparently liked you for a while now. He said he’s planning something.”

I stared at Maria, confused, "He's planning what?"

"A confession, I think. Ian is closer to him than I am." She juts a finger in Ian’s general direction. “Roger seems very earnest though.”

I groaned immediately.

Ian looked offended on Roger’s behalf, “What? Davies is handsome."

"That's not the problem." I explain.

"Rich?" Ian tries again.

"Not the problem."

"Captain of Ravenclaw?"

"Still not the problem."

Maria snorted, "Then what is the problem with Roger Davies?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Like someone checking the fridge to see if food had magically prepared itself to be eaten within the last two seconds when they had last opened the fridge.

I genuinely didn't know. Roger Davies was lovely. He was lovely in the same way sunshine was lovely. Very sensible and practical. Needed to be enjoyed even. You can’t survive without some sunshine.

Then, unhelpfully, my brain supplied an image of George Weasley standing in the Hospital Wing doorway screaming at Madam Pomfrey. Not like sunshine. Like a fireball. Like lava exploding from a volcano. The contrast in warmth was very different.

I buried my face in my hands.

"Flowers?" Maria asked.

"I think I need to be hit by a Bludger."

Ian shrugs when Maria shoots him a questioning stare. Then Maria is pulled away into clapping, her nails making a nice tapping around. The Ravenclaw team walked on.

“Who are we playing today anyhow?” I asked. “For the practice scrimmage?”

Ian leaned his back on the row of seats directly behind us, "Gryffindor.”

I curse under my breath and Maria giggles, “Wonderful development. Thank you Ian.”

“What? I love Quidditch. Our team is stellar this year. With Davies as Captain I’m sure we could win the Cup!” Ian enthuses.

I knew Maria liked it when Ian acted nerdy about things like this. Nerdy about wizarding sports.

The game went well, Ravenclaw won the scrimmage. By a fair amount as well. Our new seeker was stellar, Ian was saying something about how he was descended from one of the ancient original creators of Quidditch. Roger was also quite impressive, to be fair.

Maria wanted to go down to talk to our classmates, to encourage them.

Students were gathered in front of the locker rooms, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw chatting together and I see players complimenting each other for good plays. Davies is joking around with Harry, ruffling his hair to add slight injury to insult that Davies is much taller than him. Harry takes it in good nature though. Davies had taken his jersey off, leaving him in a compression shirt with sweat marks on his back and chest.

I tried talking to Alicia from Gryffindor, but she was talking too intently to Fred. Ian and Maria forgot about me when they saw our other housemate Claire- the Keeper. She had been stellar in the game, defending like an absolute champion.

I’d managed to find myself face to face with a sweaty Weasley. George Weasley. He had his bat hanging behind his neck. Fred was watching from the side, using his shirt to wipe his face as Alicia talked to him about the swamp Fred and George put into one of the hallways yesterday.

“How are you doing Flowers?” George isn’t very discreet about staring at my arm, so I hold it behind my back to get him to stop inspecting me.

“I’m doing good.” I say, “Thank you.”

We chat about nothing in particular, I compliment his good plays and inquire about his siblings.

I feel hair on my face, so I tuck it behind my ear. George’s mouth is open just slightly, red hair falling into his forehead like it was planned.

“Why does Davies keep shooting looks at you?” He asks, in a curious whisper.

I hadn’t even noticed. I turn my head and see Davies waving at me, Ian under his arm. I bow my head slightly in acknowledgement.

“He’s in my house.” I answer.

“I know that.”

The conversation comes to a resounding halt.

Neither of us knew what to say. Or if anything needed to be said at all.

Alicia tells Gryffindor to go shower up, and George glances at the entryway to the lockers then brings his eyes back to me, “I’m gonna- I gotta-”

“Yeah.”

Maria walks me along the outside of the lockers, Ian trailing behind, hyping up Roger Davies the entire time.

***

I sought out Madam Pomfrey.

To be specific, I’d been seeking out Madam Pomfrey for the past three weeks.

Asking her to teach me some tricks and tips in between classes.

How to make Skele-grow. How to bind a wound in plasters. In return, Madam Pomfrey had started leaving books on her desk for me. Interesting, heavy books. The medical in nature kind of books.

I shoved the new book into my bag, and took out the old one and left it neatly in the corner of her desk. She sets her list of students down, looking at me with motherly kindness. It was a list of kids who needed to be checked-up on, and with specific doses of certain medicines. She’d been dealing with an influx of scar and blood related issues as of late. Umbridge had been a little more loose with who got detention.

"You're encouraging me," I said. Sliding my bag up my shoulder.

"Of course I am."

I choke a little, "Why?"

"Because you ask sensible questions."

That was apparently the highest praise she was capable of giving. She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out another book. She handed it to me.

I looked down at the book in my hands.

Practical Healing for Household Injuries.

"Most people don't want to read about splinching accidents for fun." She said, “You’ve been reading medicinal literature like it’s a serialized drama.”

I shook my head. "I don't think it's fun."

"No?"

"No." I said.

Madam Pomfrey waited. Which was deeply unfair. She had a way of waiting that made silence feel like an answer all on its own. I shifted my bag higher onto my shoulder.

"My mum says every family should know basic first aid." The sentence comes out more twangy than I anticipated.

"Muggle first aid?"

I nodded, "She keeps a kit in the kitchen. Another in the car. One in the attic."

"The attic?"

"Dad fell through part of the roof once." I laugh.

He’d been trying to move some of the discarded artwork he’d made. His biggest ambition was to one day put up a piece of his own in a museum. But, the higher ups were hard pressed to give my dad a shot. He didn’t have an impressive portfolio, no classical training. But I swore, one look at a painting my dad did would have you contemplating your entire existence.

Pomfrey blinked.

"Twice." I admit, “The second time was technically because he was trying to fix what happened the first time."

I rubbed my thumb against the edge of the book, "When I passed out…”

Some students groaned a bit at the taste of their medicine. A first-year who’d gotten caught up in Transfiguration was waiting with her friend until his hair turned back from being snakes. The hisses were polite. In a way.

"Everyone else knew what to do."

Pomfrey's expression softened, "Darling, you were unconscious."

"I know." I looked down. "I still hated it. My mum always says that if somebody is hurt, the first thing you do is make yourself useful."

Sometimes that meant staying out of the way. Other times it meant being the first to offer a band-aid.

"Wise woman."

I smiled. I pour out more about my mum, "She also says panic is just wasted energy wearing a costume."

Pomfrey actually laughed. "I quite like your mother."

"Most people do." I brag. Pride seeping at the corners of my mouth.

Being with Madam Pomfrey was the closest thing to being at home I’d gotten the entire year. The entire year I’d been trying to be so strictly obedient to avoid any sort of attack from Umbridge. I’d been so focused on exams that I’d forgotten why I even liked learning in the first place.

Knowledge only has power to do good, when it is applied effectively. The smartest people in the world, if they did nothing with what they had within their brain would amount to nothing. I consider comparing it to how a book unread doesn’t have power to change your mind. Or a piece of candy still wrapped can’t give you a sweet experience.

How being a witch without applying herself would lead to a squandering of skill.

Pomfrey knew that.

***

One evening I was helping organize potion supplies. Madam Pomfrey had been called away to deal with a student who'd somehow managed to glue his own eyebrows together.

I was rearranging bottles when the Hospital Wing doors burst open.

George Weasley stumbled inside.

Fred followed.

Both looked guilty. That was a sign that I needed to be concerned. People usually only looked that guilty when they were responsible for whatever injury had occurred.

George had blood running down his forearm.

I stood up so quickly I nearly knocked over a tray.

"Oh for heaven's sake."

George blinked like he hadn’t expected to see me in the Hospital Wing, wearing an apron over my red sweatshirt and jeans, "Flowers?"

"What did you do?" I question. The interaction now an interrogation.

"I-” He begins, but then changes his mind, “It’s not that bad actually. We’ll be on our merry way now.”

He tries to turn around, but Fred does a good job keeping him in place.

"It's not that bad." George tries.

I point to an empty bed neat the entryway, I’d just changed the sheets on it too and now George was going to get it stained with his living matter, "Your arm is actively bleeding."

Fred looked delighted, "She's got Pomfrey's voice."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

George looked between us, then to the blood dripping down his fingertips. Flits his eyes back to me. And to my horror, he smiles.

I grabbed his wrist.

"Sit down."

George obeyed immediately. Fred made a choking noise, and looked like he got an early birthday gift from Merlin himself.

"You listened." Fred says.

George frowned, furrowing his eyebrows, "What?"

"You listened." Fred repeats.

"Well, I am injured." George attempts.

"You never listen."

"I listen sometimes." He argues.

"Not to authority."

"Flowers isn't authority." The words came out automatically.

Something warm settled low in my stomach.

George seemed to realize it a second later as his eyes widened. His ears turned bright red. And Fred looked ready to ascend into another plane of existence.

“Did the wicked witch of the Ministry get you again?” I start, sliding the metal cart containing alcohol wipes, salve, and plaster closer to my body as I sit on the bed facing George.

George doesn’t answer.

I push his sleeve up and start to wipe at the open cut across the back of his hand. At least this one was contained to a smaller area than mine had.

It read, clearly; I will listen the first time told.

George winces away from the alcohol. Fred had gone and sat on a chair in the entryway, waiting for us to be done. He tries not to stare, but it ends up being obvious that he’s trying to catalog everything about the interaction unfolding in front of him. I imagined Fred as the sort to instigate, but he also knew when it was time to observe. Like now.

“Sorry. It’ll sting for just a bit.” I apologize.

George shakes his head. Not bothered by the inconvenience apparently. As I clean the cut, I can see the remnants of other scars that didn’t heal over as cleanly. Ragged lines, sharp lines that read: I will not disobey. I will not cause a commotion. I will not be insolent.

“You’re racking up scars like they’re some kind of reward.” I mumble.

“‘Tis okay love. Everything has a price.”

“And what exactly are you trying to buy?” I dip my fingers into the salve jar, then rub it around in my hands to warm it up before putting it on his hand.

“Flowers?”

“Is that your attempt at doing a double entendre.” I roll my eyes, rubbing the salve over his hand.

“You’re saying a lot of really big words. But they sound nice.” He says, tilting his head down to look at me.

I wrap his hand in gauze and bandages. George watches the entire process. Not by focusing on the bandage. By watching my facial expressions as I work step by step. Watching me. Which is substantially more distracting.

"There." I tie off the final knot. "Try not to get into any fistfights for at least six hours."

"I can do five." He teases.

I stare at him.

George grins. The grin softens when I start packing the supplies away. Capping the bottle of alcohol and twisting the lid of the salve jar closed.

The Hospital Wing doors burst open again. This time a Ravenclaw jersey comes stumbling through.

"Merlin's-"

Roger Davies nearly crashes into the nearest bed. He's holding his shoulder. Blood seeps through the blue fabric.

I wonder if Madam Pomfrey ever finished helping the poor boy with the stuck eyebrows from Hufflepuff. Because I still wasn’t sure about my Skele-grow ratios. I wondered what the maximum capacity for the Hospital Wing could be. Maybe my third year boyfriend would suddenly walk in as well. Just to add insult to the numerous injuries.

Behind Roger, trailing into the Hospital Wing Ian Castillo is gesturing wildly, "It wasn't my fault!"

"It was your pass!" Roger snaps back.

"It was a strategic pass!"

"It hit me in the face!" Roger slams his head against the pillow. I could see the bruise blooming on his eye and cheek. That was going to be sore for a while.

Ian tries to recover his ego, picking up pieces of it from the floor, "It was windy!"

"It was indoors!"

My head immediately snaps toward Davies. I abandon George without thinking. I figure he probably realizes he’s all tidied up and good to go.

"Just- relax would you?" I beg, rushed.

Davies obeys immediately. George's expression goes oddly blank. I didn't notice. I'm too busy already pulling fresh supplies from the cart.

"What happened?"

Madam Pomfrey says that asking questions is a good way to bring the focus from pain into the present moment. So I start a barrage of questions. Because it looks like Davies was in for a long night re-growing whatever was left of his shoulder back into normal condition.

"Practice."

"Practice?"

Ian points accusingly at Roger from the entryway, he’s hovering around Fred. Like Fred would be able to protect him from the smack I was waiting to give him on the shoulder when I was finished trying to figure all of this out.

"He attempted a celebratory dive." Ian explains.

Davies sighs, "I slipped."

Ian corrects, "You fell down three flights of stairs."

"I fell down two stairs."

"Three."

"Two and a half."

I push his sleeve upward.

The shoulder is split open. And the shape is disfigured. I’ll clean the external injury first, and then give the Skele-grow. I have to get a better angle though. I tug on the bottom of Roger’s shirt, asking for permission before I slide the shirt off one side of his body.

The fabric pooled on the right side of his body with the unused sleeve falling behind his back.

I was sure 18 year-olds weren’t supposed to have abdominal muscles like this. Or if anyone was supposed to. Roger at least seems shy enough to appear flustered when I accidentally graze his side, a pink blush splotchy on his face.

"You're both idiots." I click my tongue against my mouth. Focusing on the problem at hand.

Davies chuckles low in his chest, "That's exactly what Pomfrey says."

"Because she's correct."

Davies laughs but George doesn’t. The room has become strangely quiet. I glance over to George. He’s still sitting on the bed where I left him. Bandaged, forgotten, and watching. Fred is watching him, watch me. Which somehow seems the most convoluted sort of three-way observation I'd ever been a part of. And I was regularly stuck between Maria and Ian. So, I knew a thing or two about observational awareness.

I point at George, "You're done." I wave him off slightly.

George blinks, "Hm?"

"Your hand."

"Oh." He freezes for a moment, glancing down at his hand, “Right.”

George doesn’t move. Neither does Davies. For one horrible moment they look at each other. It’s so simple it singes my face with heat.

Davies breaks first, smirking in George’s direction, then going to compliment me, "Thanks for patching him up."

George nods, "Cheers."

Neither sounds particularly grateful. Fred immediately develops the expression of a man witnessing a train derailment in slow motion.

Ian runs a hand down his face, sitting in the chair next to Fred. Fred looks like he wants to offer Ian some popcorn for the show he was enjoying. I felt like I was in my mum’s favorite episode of ER.

"Oh no." Ian says.

"What?" I ask. Wiping Roger’s bicep with alcohol, then holding gauze to the place while I try to figure out which balm would work best for the cut.

Ian draws a line across the room. From George’s spot to Roger’s spot, "You've done something."

"I literally treated a cut."

"No."

He draws the line again, this time with beautifully expressive loops in the air. Like he was twirling a ribbon, "You've done something~"

Davies finally looks away from George, and shifts to looking at me again. The tension in his shoulders relaxes instantly. It’s almost as if that’s where he’d been wanting to look naturally. And George was just a glitch in the matrix that distracted him for a moment.

I can practically hear the gears grinding in George’s head.

I rub my hand over Roger’s arm, the salve was more cooling focused, so I didn’t need to warm it up. I used my fingertips to follow the edges of the cut gently. Davies smiles, "You're getting good at this Flowers."

The compliment lands on target. I feel my ears warm.

Someone noticed all the studying. Saw the practical application of skills in use. And Roger, being a Ravenclaw, could understand my theory on all of that. George notices too, with recognition coloring his expression. Like he's suddenly understanding that the girl who sat quietly in the Hospital Wing bed isn't the same girl standing here ordering Quidditch captains around.

"It's dislocated," Davies says, “And probably a little shattered too.”

I wince at the thought, "That sounds painful."

George snorts, "Not really."

Everyone looks at him.

George straightens, rolling his shoulders back, “I’ve had worse, you know.”

Fred closes his eyes, "There it is."

Ian nods like he knows what’s going on, commenting in Spanish about the situation. Davies lets George’s comment roll off him like rain. Cool as ever. I wonder what Maria is getting up to. Hopefully something fun. Especially something fun.

Davies continues, directed at me, "Honestly, if Pomfrey ever retires, you've got the job."

I laugh, "That sounds like an enormous amount of responsibility."

"You'd be good at it."

George speaks up too, "She really would." He immediately looks annoyed that he's spoken. The bed George is sitting in creaks slightly as he moves around, sitting up impossibly straighter. George rubs the back of his neck. "You would be good at it."

Normally George hands out explosions. But now, he’s handing me praise. He stands up, newly bandaged hand hanging at his side. He points to the door, “I’m leaving now.”

He takes three heavy steps forward, then turns around and looks at me, “Thanks, Flowers.”

George leaves pretty quickly after that. Tail between his legs.

“Oh, well,” Fred struggles a bit, and stumbles as he rushes after his brother, announcing to the room, “This is a complete disaster.”

The door swung open and shut, back and forth a few times before settling on shut. The hinges would need to be fixed, they squeaked too much. I noted it for later. When I would be finished with Davies.

Fred pops his head back in, holding the door open with both hands, he speaks to Roger, “It’s truly nice to know George isn't the only idiot in the castle.”

***

The owl arrived during breakfast. The letter dropped right into my porridge, I wiped off the oatmeal chunks with my hand, then shook my hand off behind me. Hoping the pieces wouldn’t fling over onto anyone’s robes.

Maria raised an eyebrow at the parchment. She and I both knew well enough that I never got letters. My Mum was always hesitant to bother me, so she never sent them. My dad was more open to doing so, but he’d been busy with a new showcase. Ian isn’t paying any attention, chatting it up with Roger who is sitting across from me.

Roger noticed my hesitancy, and slowed his speech enough that the topic of turning Snitches into jewelry after winning them died out so he could focus on me.

And on the letter.

Maria elbowed me, telling me to open it. I use my butter knife to open the letter, leaning backwards so no one can read it over my shoulder.

My darling daughter,
Ministry visited again.
Before you panic, we're alright.
Your father attempted to explain modern art to one of them. I think that may have counted as psychological warfare.
Unfortunately they have requested additional interviews. Apparently someone believes your father may be involved in "suspicious magical activity."
Your father sells paintings of sheep and is curating a new collection for our local museum. I am struggling to understand the threat.
Please continue taking your iron supplements.
Do not worry about us. Your father was the one who told me to send this to you. He wants to keep communication open.
We love you so much.
Mum

I read the letter twice. The Great Hall continued around me. Students laughing, owls swooping in and around. But it all felt so incredibly distant from reality. The ministry was investigating my parents. My normal, loving, weird parents.

Dad probably thought the entire thing was ridiculous. Mum probably wasn't sleeping much. I suddenly wanted to dump all my food into the bin.

Maria read me like one of her romance novels, "Bad?"

I folded the letter and tucked it into my pocket, "Complicated."

Ian leaned forward with a sigh, eyes going soft and worried.

"Ministry?"

I nodded.

No one spoke. Which somehow made the depressive feeling sinking and rotting in my stomach lurch a bit more than I wanted it to.

***

The first student arrived on Tuesday. Not by avenues of Hospital Wing stop-by. Through the library.

I was settled into the Healing arts section, and a stack of books of Medicinal Herbology. I was trying to see what I could use from around the grounds to replace some of the expensive plants Pomfrey had to order. I was trying to help.

A Slytherin first-year stood in front of me, tiny. Terrified too. She was hiding her hand behind her back. I recognized her. She’d been getting taunted by her housemates. She was Muggleborn. I could relate to her in that way, but I think she had it much rougher at school right now than I did.

“Hi,” I said carefully.

“Hi.”

She looked like she wanted to bolt. Instead, she held out her hand in front of me. The cut was bleeding.

I will respect authority.

A bitterness creeped its way into my mouth. I shut my book immediately, and turned to face her, holding her hand carefully in mine, “Have you been to Madam Pomfrey?”

She shook her head, “Umbridge said it would be a disruption.”

My mum used to say that adults were just children with better paperwork. I was beginning to suspect some adults didn't deserve the paperwork.

"Sit down." I say softly. She listened immediately. I had some dittany in my bag that Pomfrey had approved of. And, I had some muggle band-aids in a side pocket as well. Big enough to cover the small cut.

The girl had written so small, trying to avoid a large scratch across her arm. The cutesy cursive didn’t fit with the fact that it was now a painful reminder of the blood quill.

That was the start of it. Not exactly intentional. Not with dramatics. Just one student. Then another. Word spread fast. Within two weeks I had students finding me everywhere. Library, frequently. Courtyard. Ravenclaw Common Room. Outside classrooms in passing periods.

A third-year Slytherin appeared near the greenhouses carrying enough blood-quill damage to make me briefly consider murder.

A fifth-year Ravenclaw asked for scar salve.

A Gryffindor wanted help hiding his injuries from his mother before he went home for Christmas.

I kept bandages in my bag. Salves in my trunk. Healing notes tucked between textbooks. The entire operation would have horrified Madam Pomfrey. Which was why I hadn't told her.

I did have intention to tell her though. Eventually. When I got it more sorted. The intention I had to tell Pomfrey mattered.

That evening I was reorganizing my emergency supplies when somebody knocked on the Ravenclaw Common Room door. A Hufflepuff second-year. Young enough that his robes were still slightly too large. He looked like he hadn't slept.

"Flowers?"

Something in his voice made my stomach drop.

I led him to an empty study room. The boy rolled up his sleeve. My breath caught.

The cuts covered almost his entire forearm.

Weeks of detentions, layered over each other. And not even pretending to heal.

The boy stared at the floor, "I didn't know who else to ask."

I felt something snap within me. A rope pulling from both ends had to give way. Threads tugging and ripping until the force caused a fall out effect.

I thought back to George in the Hospital Wing. How ridiculous I’d believed he was. Reckless. Impossible. Inconsiderate. But looking at this boy, I finally understood.

The anger. The pure uncomplicated anger.

The blood quills weren't a consequence. They were ignorant. It wasn’t discipline, it was systematic and repeated abuse of children. The realization hit me so hard my hands trembled as I started to wipe at the cuts.

The second-year noticed.

"Flowers?"

I looked up. I stared at the ruined skin covering his arm. Obedience suddenly felt very small compared to this.

“No more.” I said, ruffling his sandy hair. He mustered a grin for me.

***

I’d retreated to the common room, cuddled into the couch in front of the fire. Staring at the flames dance, as it was spiking up and down depending on what piece of wood was being bitten at by the fire.

Most students were at dinner. I probably should have been there as well.

Instead, I had a Healing Arts book open on the couch, my legs tucked up into my chest. I had to reach around my legs to move each page. I didn’t know what exactly it was that I was reading, the words had gotten blurry a long time ago.

I left my mum’s newest letter on the coffee table between the couch and fireplace. I looked up, and the stars were spinning slowly. I saw a version of Halley’s Comet rushing across the ceiling, although I’m not sure if wishing on it would, or could even, do anything about what was happening.

I rubbed my eyes. The stinging pressure behind my skull wouldn’t go away.

The Ministry had visited again. As if my parents were criminals. As if Dad's greatest threat to society wasn't accidentally overwatering his garden on Sunday afternoons when Mum was stuck to the television. I let out a slow breath. I could stitch up the kids roaming the halls but I couldn’t save my parents from a muggle hunt.

I’d heard from the grapevine. From Cho Chang. That the ministry threatened to Obliviate her mum. Just her mum. I wondered what kind of wreckage would occur if her father wasn’t a part of the Ministry’s inner workings. I had no such connections. Unless Madam Pomfrey counted.

I hated feeling useless.

The sofa across from me scraped against the floor. Roger apologized quietly, sitting down. Sinking into the plush of the seat. I immediately considered throwing myself out the nearest window.

"Hello, Flowers."

I nodded at him, wiping my eyes with my sleeves. Grateful when no moisture collected on the fabric. Roger glanced at the stack of books beside me, before his dark brown eyes settled on my face.

He was warming me up. I could tell.

“Umbridge cancelled Quidditch,” he says, “Our entire team has been drowning themselves in eclectic literature, trying to stave off their boredom. Don’t tell me you got infected too?”

I chuckle lightly, shutting my book shut, and then setting it on the coffee table. Politely changing my posture and setting my feet on the ground, crossing my ankles. Roger was rocking his left knee, repeatedly bumping the arm of the sofa.

I'd been doing an excellent job holding myself together until this. Because Roger didn’t push, he just sat there, entertaining himself with his thoughts. No trying to pry. Avoiding making me uncomfortable at all costs.

The silence stretched comfortably. Most people couldn't manage comfortable silence. Maria filled silence. Ian performed in silence. George detonated silence. Roger simply occupied it.

He spoke, because all silence ended eventually, “Your mum's letter."

I looked up sharply. Roger immediately lifted both hands, "I didn't read it."

"Good."

"I saw your face afterward."

That was somehow the more horrible option.

I looked down at my book while Roger waited. The horrible thing about Roger was that he never seemed impatient.

I let him in on the big secret, simply explaining, "The Ministry is investigating my parents."

Roger's expression didn't change. But it did shift in depth, enough to convey to me that he understood the seriousness.

"I'm sorry."

I shrugged, a terrible attempt at feigning indifference. I stop trying to appear ladylike, bringing my legs back up- my feet hanging over the edge of the couch. I wiggled my toes within my socks. I flattened my skirt, but Davies didn’t seem like the type to try and sneak a peek, he was focused on my face- not my thighs.

I sniff, "You, uh, you know my dad curates museum exhibits. My mum is an accountant. They’re normal people. Everyone keeps saying not to worry. Mum says it’s all fine,” I wave a hand in the air, “My dad apparently tried explaining modern art to an official.”

Roger snorted and I allowed myself to laugh.

The corners of my eyes started to dampen and I blinked furiously.

Roger pretended not to notice- and that somehow made me want to cry even more.

"Pet."

I swallowed. I’d never been called pet before, that was new.

"Pet, would you look at me please?"

I didn't want to but I did anyway. He’d gone entirely soft around the edges. Even more so, he was steady. The same expression he wore before a difficult Quidditch match. The same expression he wore whenever younger students asked him for help.

"I'm going to tell you something."

I folded my hands together.

"My mum worries about me every time I get on a broom."

"What?" I say, but it comes out more like a whimper. That didn’t make sense. Roger Davies? One of the best flyers out there? And his mum was worried about his broom skills?

"Every match,” he says, “She thinks I'm going to die."

"You play Quidditch."

"Exactly."

"That's not the same."

"It is to her,” Roger continued, noticing I was trying not to smile, “My dad sends me letters before every season because he thinks I’ll forget to eat my veg.”

I laughed. He’d gone and made me proper laugh in the middle of all this.

"My point," he said, "is that parents worry."

"My parents are being investigated." I said in a way that clearly told him that the situations were different, “And I don’t know how to help.”

"I know."

The gentleness in his voice nearly undid me.

"I hate it." I say, voice cracking, “My mum sounds so bloody tired of it all. I consider why I even have magic at all. It’s only brought bad things to my family. And I’m doing a foul job of being a witch.”

Roger's jaw tightened, "Do you know what I think?"

I shook my head.

"I think your parents raised someone extraordinary."

My breath caught in my throat. Roger looked mildly embarrassed by his own sincerity.

He continued anyway, “I mean it.”

“Roger-”

“No, really. You remember everyone’s name. You carry medical stuff in your bag. That’s not normal, that’s so unbelievably kind.”

Roger reached across the table, leaving a peppermint in the wake of his hand. I took it and immediately put it in my mouth. He looked triumphant. Like he'd solved a difficult academic problem. But, all I’d done was unwrap a peppermint.

Roger smiled. And for the first time since receiving Mum's letter, the knot in my chest loosened. Enough to breathe again.

***

I was running an illegal medical operation. Which sounds significantly more dramatic than it actually was. In reality, it was biscuit tins. Three underneath my bed, two under Maria’s, and then one I had hidden in plain sight in the Ravenclaw common room. Each tin had supplies and emergency materials for dealing with the fallout from Umbridge’s war on children.

I always had a tin in my bag, which was causing a twist in my spot where my nape met my shoulder. The weight of the supplies, and sometimes the responsibility could be irritating. But I'd already settled into what I was doing. It was like getting a calling you couldn't just turn down on a whim. Especially not when people, children, started to rely on me.

I’d finished helping a pair of Hufflepuffs and was packing things back into my bag when George walked by. I don’t know where Fred was, or even Dean.

I nearly dropped the salve jar, “What are you doing here?”

His focused drifted, and he saw the supplies on the bench. Jars, sign-up sheets, notebooks, and lots of little lollies. And of course, plasters too. His eyes widened, "...Flowers."

The jig was up.

"You've built a bloody underground hospital."

I winced, "It sounds shoddy when you say it like that."

"It sounds exactly as bad as it is."

I opened my mouth.

George pointed at the biscuit tin.

"You're running a resistance movement."

"It's first aid." I corrected him.

"Illegal first aid."

"It's only illegal because Umbridge keeps confiscating supplies."

George looked delighted.

"Flowers!" He enthused.

"No." I responded. Wanting out of this exposure.

"This is the best thing you've ever done."

I gaped while George stared back at me.

"You're serious?" I say, my accent deep. I cringed a little. Usually it wasn’t that heavy. My mum, from Derry, moved to Galway for college and met my dad there. Sometimes the Derry brogue came out before I could control it. Make it more palatable.

"Entirely serious."

His grin spread, he waved a hand to my medical supplies, “You built an underground medical network. A rebellion. Rebellious bandages, love.”

I rubbed my face.

George looked moments away from proposing marriage to the concept.

George started to question me, and I was giving curt answers. Trying to give away as little as possible. Because really, I should have been sending students to Pomfrey. Why I didn’t came down to the amount of control Umbridge could exercise over the Hospital Wing. If I could mitigate the cuts, then Pomfrey could focus on the bigger things. So many students had also been threatened by Umbridge. Go to Hospital Wing and face another detention. Foul truly.

Davies was going for a stroll, hands in his pockets. He saw George and I sitting practically thigh to thigh, excitement radiating off of George. Davies is smart though. Because he clocked the medical supplies just as quick as George did.

He slowly pinched the bridge of his nose, "Flowers." The tone immediately worried me, "You've been treating students?"

"Only minor injuries." I shrug.

Roger sits down on the other side of me. I scoop up all my material, having them bundled up in my lap and arms. If I shifted too much, it would all spill out.

"How many?" Roger asked.

When I paused, considering, Roger narrowed his eyes at me. He prompted me with a call of my name again.

“...forty-three.”

George made a choking noise. Davies looked like he could faint.

“FORTY-THREE?” Roger blurted.

"Over several weeks." I explained, which I hoped would soften the number.

"Do you have records?"

"...sort of."

"Sort of?"

"I remember most of them."

George laughed.

Davies pointed at me, "No." Disapproving of the entire situation. It was like getting a talking to from my dad after I snuck too much strawberry juice on a trip to the Cliffs.

George rolled his eyes.

"What?"

"No." Roger says again.

"Roger-"

"No."

He stood again. Immediately entering full Quidditch Captain mode, “How many supplies do you have left? What happens if you don’t have enough supplies? What happens then?”

“Statistically unlikely. I’ve been stock piling at my dorm.”

“That is not a plan, Flowers,” he said, arms extended in disbelief.

George remained, and he looked tickled with delight.

They both wanted in on my little operation. So it grew in size. I was treating nearly a third of the school. I blamed Roger. He created schedules. Regularly checked my supplies. Regularly started checking on me. And a lookout system too, he had invited the entire Ravenclaw Quidditch team to help out.

George called Roger a bureaucrat. Roger called George a menace. George invited more people to help. Roger helped to organize them.

George was seeking dramatic secret passwords and chaos. Davies was looking for efficiency and structure. I just wanted them to stop arguing about all of it with me. No one listened to me though. George had been good at getting raw materials for me to turn into supplies.

The breaking point came when I walked into the Charms classroom and found them both standing over a map of Hogwarts.

"What's happening?"

George pointed to a map that he and Roger were pouring over, they had set up camp at my desk. Knowing that I always went to Charms early.

"Secret tunnels."

Davies pointed, clicking, “Supply routes mate.”

George pointed again.

"Escape routes."

Davies pointed again.

"Inventory checkpoints."

I had become someone examining two potentially dangerous magical creatures, "You've both become emotionally invested in my first-aid project."

They were taking it over almost.

"No," George said immediately.

"Absolutely not," said Davies.

George complained, "His system is ridiculous."

Davies turned towards me, hand out and open, "His ideas are ridiculous."

"They're excellent ideas."

"They're criminal."

George looked pleased.

Davies looked exhausted.

I sat down at the desk and put my head in my hands. To my dawning horror, I had somehow become the person standing between George Weasley and Roger Davies. This was the true medical emergency. Neither injury seemed treatable where I was looking. Not even Madam Pomfrey could help me here.