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THREE DAYS PASS, blurring in periphery in snapshots of film, strung together by spaces of moments Sawyer doesn't remember. Lately it feels like she's been drifting through life as a ghost, watching the hours pass while she goes nowhere. While she's stuck in the cyclical routine of classes, transition periods, Quidditch practices, seeing the same faces over and over, homework by wand light and sleep, with nothing to look forward to.
It's not depression, Sawyer doesn't think. She's not sad. Just empty of life. Dumbledore opposes her dismissal. Depression isn't just sadness. There's no way to be sure it's what she has, so she doesn't have to be worried about that, he'd told her, as though she cared enough to concern herself with her own welfare. As if giving it a label would improve matters. The anger would still be there, burning in her gut, wicking off her shoulders like smoke. She would still be half human, half void, sucking out every ounce of life in the room in her interminable search for feeling. It's been awhile since she's felt anything but numb or helpless.
At breakfast on Friday, Sawyer is the last to arrive in a thunderstorm of chronic angst and muscle ache. This morning's 5AM Quidditch session with Oliver, Violet, and a more substantially fed Harry had carved out all her energy, and with the way the two younger Quidditch players had limped off the pitch with their arms looped around each other's shoulders in support, Sawyer would say she wasn't the only one in rough shape. With every breath, she could feel every inch of her body straining to stay upright. With every searing ache and groan of her bones, she cursed Oliver to hell. She passes the Gryffindor table, where Wyatt and Oliver sit, somewhere in the flames of red and gold ties, and the vituperation in her head grows louder, as though hoping—by Legimency—Oliver would be able to hear every one of her amplified acidic thoughts.
Seated in their usual corner of the Slytherin table, Jeremy and Marcus have their heads bent together, a heated discussion on rapid-fire speed hissing between them. Rio has his head in his hands, a distressing waver to his form. His plate of waffles sits before him, untouched.
"What's up?" Sawyer asks, dropping into the empty space beside Rio. Instantly, Jeremy and Marcus fall silent, exchanging worried glances. It's then that she notices the Advanced Potions Making textbook, flipped open to the contents page, on the table between them.
Dropping his hands from his face, Rio lets out an agonised groan, and rocks forward abruptly like he's a nanosecond away from hurling. "Fuck off."
Sawyer patronises Rio with a vacant grin. He bristles, but the glare he slants her is blunted, absent of it's usual razor edge. There's no heart in his hatred, no teeth in his bite. Something's gone terribly wrong.
"He's going through withdrawal," Jeremy explains, running a hand through his fair hair in frustration, as Sawyer fixes Rio with a pensive stare. "We haven't been able to brew him the Draught of Peace in the past day and a half because the school ran out of stock for powdered moonstone. I asked Professor Snape when the new shipment would be in because I wanted to practice for my O.W.L.s, and he told me it'd only arrive in a week's time. Until then, we've got to find another solution." He gestures to the textbook. "There has to be an alternative somewhere."
