Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
IT SEEMS LIKE THE EMINENT THREAT brewing within the school hadn't been solved by the time Christmas break was over and classes were beginning again and the reluctant trickle of students clocked back into their routine.
Talismans were still exchanging hands, petrified students had spent nights in the infirmary with Madam Pomfrey flustered and fussing over them, shooing teachers (and even the Headmaster himself). Quidditch training had seen a couple injuries over the course of a couple weeks. When Violet had sprained her wrist and made a valiant attempt to hide it until Sawyer tossed her a bat, and she'd winced when it hit her hand, but couldn't hold onto it, Sawyer had to forcibly threaten Violet to go to the infirmary. It was there, with both of them sitting in the waiting area, that they saw it all, watching as Madam Pomfrey singlehandedly conducted the traffic of broken bodies coming in, and when she finally finished tending to the petrified students, finally working her way down the line of injured Quidditch players, tapped Violet's wrist with her wand in a silent healing charm and gave her some medication to counter the side effects.
Still, Quidditch practiced pushed on. Kenai had wrangled the Hufflepuff players into a scheduled regiment of drills and mock-scrimmages and conditioning. Sawyer and Oliver met up every morning to run laps around the Quidditch pitch every morning. Perhaps her commitment to this routine had been in part due to the fact that one side-effect of her medication had seen a significant amount of weight gain over the holidays when she'd been pretty inactive. Nobody made a comment on it, though, primarily because they didn't want to end up in the infirmary with a hole punched through their chest amidst the petrified students lying comatose in their cots.
Every morning, Sawyer took her pills and became a voyeur of her own life, floating inches above her body. This was what they called healing and recovery, but never quite becoming whole. But whole was never hers to be in the first place. What she had been was bruised knuckles and lighting fires and sneaking out of her house to run around in the dark to kiss boys she didn't care about, do things that made no sense, soaking in the tainted and trying to cough out something holy but ending up with the same thing over and over again. Temporary fixes to fill the rift inside her. Before, when she felt nothing and therefore cared about nothing. Now, she didn't know.
Now, it didn't matter. Now, both her and Oliver had slowed to a stop by the bench where they'd left their water bottles and towels, sweat gleaming on their temples, ankles damp from the dewy grass.
"I saw you and Violet at the infirmary the other day," Oliver said, stretching out his hamstrings. "What happened?"
"Just a wrist sprain," Sawyer said, rolling out her ankle. "Had to force the child to see Madam Pomfrey 'cause she was trying to hide it from everyone. Idiot. I think she just didn't want to see the petrified kids."
Oliver grunted in agreement. "She should take care of herself more. Especially in the position she's playing for."
A beat of silence lapsed over them as they stretched out.
