𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 | 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘗𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳

47 || Yellow || Year Four

Staying with the Weasley's was greater than I'd ever dreamed of.

I roomed with Ginny for most of the summer, and my mornings began with the chirping of birds and the smell of sausage and eggs wafting up from the kitchen, where Mrs. Weasley prepared breakfast. There was always enough food to go around and even enough for seconds. Mr. Weasley would sit at the head of the table and read the Daily Prophet out loud to us all, then ask me questions about Muggle life. During the daytime, we would play endless games of Quidditch that normally came to an abrupt halt due to some sort of fight between Ron and the twins. When it got dark we would eat a spectacular dinner followed by homemade ice cream. Some nights we would gather round an old record player Mr. Weasley had managed to procure from a Muggle home and listen to music.

I sometimes thought of the kids at the orphanage or about my father, but Ron and Ginny had become adept at noticing when I started to drift off and would quickly get my attention so as not to cause a flashback or relapse of any sort.

One hot day, in the middle of an intense game of Quidditch, my sweat-slicked hands lost their purchase on my Firebolt and I tumbled to the ground. When I opened my eyes I was back at the orphanage, watching it burn to the ground. I was only woken up by a splash of ice-cold water from Mrs. Weasley's wand.

After that, she wanted to take me to St. Mungo's to be treated, but I assured her that my ailment wasn't magical in any way. She seemed skeptical but later booked me an appointment with a Muggle doctor a few miles into town. The doctor, though confused about Mrs. Weasley's purple robes, diagnosed me with a form of PTSD and anxiety. He didn't prescribe any medication but told me to call him if I ever experienced a panic attack or serious relapse.

I didn't know how to feel about the diagnosis.

It made sense- all of it did, but my mind turned to Harry as soon as the doctor pressed his card into my palm. Harry had dealt with so much, a lot of it similar to me; he deserved medical treatment too, didn't he? I wrote to Sirius. He got back to me within a few days.

Dear Ash,

I understand what you're going through. I haven't seen a 'doctor' like you have, I should really be in St. Mungo's, but flashbacks are something I deal with nearly every day. It was good of Molly to go and find help. I hope that it gets better for you. Stick with your friends. That always helped me.

I don't know much about things like this, but you might want to suggest treatment of some sort to Harry. Obviously his Aunt and Uncle won't have any interest in taking him to a hospital but he might be able to get help at school. I've written to him a bit and he seems to be doing well. He appreciated the cakes you all sent him for his birthday.

Harry had told us that the Dursley's were forcing Dudley (and therefore, Harry) to go on a "rabbit food" diet and we all banded together to send him as many sweets as we could, even Hermione, who was at home with her parents. Harry somehow baked a cake for me, too, for my own birthday (which I shared with him), and sent it over to the Weasley's house with Hedwig.

As for me and Buckbeak, we are keeping out of sight. Remus visited us the other day. He was a little bedraggled but otherwise fine. He told me to tell you hello, and that he hopes you are having a nice summer holiday with the Weasleys.

Cheers to going to the World Cup! I'm quite jealous. In all my years I never got to see one.

Write back when you can–Dusk and Buckbeak have made a good pair and always enjoy seeing one another. I enjoy reading your letters, too.

Much love,

Dad

As much as I wanted to confide in Mr. and Mrs. Weasley about my father, I kept my mouth shut because I knew I couldn't risk anything being leaked. This meant that I had to stay quiet and tremble in fury unnoticeably when Mr. Weasley read and agreed with some terrible article in the Daily Prophet about Sirius. Even worse were the "Sirius Black Spotted in Muggle City! Real or Fake?" columns.