Antidepressant {Fred Weasley}

10 - Dyslexia

Olivia ^

Quick note: I changed the last little bit of the last chapter bc this takes place during the fifth book, which means the Weasley's would have left school early bc of the attack on Mr. Weasley. Sorry for goofing up. Please take this chapter as an appology.

Upon my arrival, everything I predicted comes true. Gram, a tiny twig of a woman, with unbelievably long and silver hair, claws at my cheeks and pulls me in a hug all too tight for a woman of her age and size. I feel her practically crumbling bones dig into me. Gramps, a bald man with a round stomach, glances up from his Daily Prophet, startled at my apparation. He folds the newspaper aside, heaves himself out his armchair with a strained fart, and pulls me into a hug as well, holding his finger out at the end. Thankfully, Lindsey isn't around, but I still have to deal with Uncle Paul running around the house on all fours, growling at me. I hold my hand out for him to sniff. He licks it and barks. The stumpy man has pointed features, including k-nine teeth that he sharpened during his 'discovery'. His face is scruffy and his hair is long and matted. He's dressed in all black, a tail clipped to his pants. On his hands, he wears paw shaped gloves, and his neck holds a collar, solely because the landlord claims that all pets must have one.

"We really should get him checked," Gramps says going back down to the news.

Gram hums from the kitchen. "Oh, he's just expressing himself. You know the Macaws? Well, their daughter is just the same, prancing around the house in a dragon suit. Says she's a boy too. Sometimes people just aren't how they're born, you know?"

I plop down on the sofa. "Yes, but she's a six-year-old girl who identifies as a boy, not a twenty-something-year-old man convinced he's a wolf. What if... What if he wants to start reproducing with wolves?"

"Well, hopefully, he doesn't get his hands on a lady wolf then."

"What's for dinner?" I ask as Uncle Paul climbs on my lap and stretches out. I pat his head, the behavior no longer creepy to me.

"I'm having a salad, Paul a steak nearly raw, Linsey's not coming back tonight--honestly that woman can't stay away from a bar for a fraction of a millisecond, and Gramps is having cereal."

"I love me a good bowl of cereal," Gramps grunts in response.

I think longingly to what the Weasleys might be doing now. Fred's told me lots about his mum and her fantastic cooking, but he complains about every meal being a family meal. I never understand when he does, because I'd rather that than Muggle take out every night, which is what I'll be having tonight. The closest we get to family time is when we draw sticks on who has to clean Uncle Paul's mess when he doesn't go outside to do his business.

"May I use the owl?" I ask after a few minutes of petting Uncle Paul.

"Sure, but don't let Paul follow you. He tries to eat the poor thing every time she's near."

"Up," I say to Uncle Paul. He whines and sulks off, curling up at Gramps' feet.

On the way past, I grab the house phone off the hook and a Chinese food menu from the counter, and I lock myself up in my room.

Since I have to share the space with Lindsey, the room is somewhat split in half. Beds are shoved in opposite corners, hers with empty bottles, dirty clothes, and old food wrappings surrounding it. There are posters of assorted ruins on her side, the kind one would study in Ancient Ruins. It was the only class she was really interested in. On my side, however, my piano is the only thing on the ground besides a sparse bookshelf that holds only a handful books: Spells and Brews for Theatrical Success, Piano Playing Basics, Act It Out: 453 Wizard Improv Ideas, Wicked, and all my old spell books. My wall space is cluttered with musical posters, Muggle and Wizarding alike. Another thing I should mention is the giant wall we have separating the two halves. You see, Lindsey enjoys bringing home guys, and so I don't have to sleep on the sofa while they do the dirty, she placed a soundproof wall in our room.

"It's not just for me," she explained, "One day you might bring home a guy... or a girl. I'm not really sure about you yet."

The worst part is I was twelve when she told me this. Yep. I had to have 'the talk' with my drunken cousin.

I grab a quill and parchment and lay out on the wood floor. The owl, Gordy, watches closely with twinkling black eyes.

"It's for a guy," I explain. "Fred Weasley."

He hoots.

"But maybe I shouldn't... I mean he hasn't talked to me in a while..."

The owl hoots again.

"Yeah, you're right. I should wait for him to write me. Don't want to be too clingy..."

I sigh and scrap the parchment. Gordy hoots with distaste, and I order myself a pizza.

~

The pizza is gone in one sitting, and I lay in my bed, Christmas Eve, staring up at my ceiling, waiting for my medicine to wear off. It's a slow process, so slow I'm scared I'm going to fall asleep before it happens. But I urge myself to stay awake, my favorite notes from Fred clutched in my hands. The notes are a constant thing we do. We send at least one a day. I have enough to fill a shoebox at this point, but there are a few that I like to read every night.

When I read them, medicine worn off and all, a sort of heat spreads over me as if I'm drinking Butterbeer, but warmer. More intense. I grin like an idiot reading some, and others make me blush. It's funny how just a few words from Fred can have such a powerful effect on me. I know if Olivia found out what I was doing, she would be furious. She's so terrified of me feeling anything negative, that she wants me to get rid of my positive. To me, not feeling is a lot worse than feeling sadness, and I hate when people can't understand that. You see, the thing about feelings is that be swayed to do things when I feel a certain way. That's how all people are. For example, I'm more likely to write a letter to Fred when I'm bubbly and happy than when I'm scared.

Without thinking, I grab the parchment and quill again and write a note.

'Sometimes I feel like I do not know myself like I'm lost inside myself. And I cannot even live within myself and I cannot trust myself when I'm by myself.'

I don't give myself time to think it over. I sneak to get Gordy and send him to the Burrow. Seconds after it's gone, however, I start to panic and think of everything that could go wrong. What if he's sleeping and the owl wakes him up? What if it wakes the whole house up? What if his vacation is a way to avoid me for a bit? I must be annoying him or else he would have sent one first. In five minutes, I'm shaking. In ten, I'm crying. By twenty, I'm a blubbering mess wishing I had more pizza because that can save me from embarrassment, right?

By thirty, I have a package and response in my hand: the last half of the poem I sent.

'Too many broken pieces scattered of myself, too empty and maybe I'm not myself. I think I need you to save me from myself because without you I'm just not myself.'

P.S. The package is an early Christmas present.

(hint: write the next note in it)

I stare at the words, tears gone and replaced with a smile. I set the note aside and stare at the leather bound book in my hand. The dark leather seems to have swirling designs carved into it, but upon closer examination, I see it's my name in different styles. I trace a few letters before actually opening the journal to the first page. Grabbing a quill, I scribble a note.

'She always felt lost and it was beautiful not knowing how she would find herself. For everything she knew was a speck of something greater and it was just a matter of time until all of her made sense.'

I stare at it for a few seconds after writing the note, not knowing what to expect. I'm about to close it when the leather gets warm, and the familiar handwriting of Fred Weasley crawls onto the page, a letter at a time.

'I know it's late but come away with me. Let us run away in the dark and I promise you, I will never see myself without you again.'

I'm not kidding. Get dressed. I'll be at your house in ten minutes.