Working Through the Rest

Flying Without Food

One of the first things Scorpius wants to do when we get back into the routine of school life is Quidditch Practise. True to his letters, he has improved over summer, but because he isn't on the team yet, we end up on the Pitch after the teams are finished, usually quite late or in the middle of the day.

Scorpius asked me if I was okay with spending time on the pitch. I told him I was. In truth, I'd rather do almost anything else, but I can't let him be alone down there. As much as it terrifies the shit out of me to go anywhere near it, it's making him happy.

So I sit in the stands and watch him soar all over the pitch, trying to catch a badly-enchanted Snitch-substitute. Occasionally he asks me to watch for particular things, which helps to distract my mind from staring at the places here she hurt Scorpius, killed Craig.

Sitting in the stands also gives my mind an immeasurable amount of time to wonder about my feelings for Scorpius. It doesn't help that Scorpius looks so good when he's flying. Either his face is a mask of concentration, or he's grinning at me, continuing to soar around the stadium at break-neck speed.

A couple of weeks into term, I wake up at about two in the morning with a violent stomach-ache. Somehow, I manage to drag myself through to the bathroom before I make any noise, and I'm back in bed within fifteen minutes, trying not to move too much.

I don't feel any better the next morning and my plate at breakfast remains empty. Scorpius questions it. I just mutter that I feel a bit shit and that's all we say. It should be something that passes within a day or so.

I start to feel better at the end of the morning, my hunger overtaking the stomach ache. At lunch, I eat as much as I feel comfortable eating, given how rough I've felt. That night I eat a little more.

And then, the next morning, I wake up early, feeling exactly the same. I don't eat breakfast, barely eat lunch, and attempt to stomach some tiny portion of dinner.

This continues. For weeks. I try not to let on to Scorpius and when he realises something is wrong, I refuse to go to the Hospital Wing. Simply because I can't face answering questions about what's going on. Because I don't know how to describe it.
Scorpius wasn't angry when he found out I was still ill. He understands that it's something I can't control. He doesn't understand why it's happening, but neither do I. So we just muddle through. He points out that I am starting to lose weight at one point. I shrug it off because I don't know how to remedy it. I am eating as much as I can. I'm just never hungry when I don't feel ill.

Scorpius said that if it gets too bad, he will make me go to the Hospital Wing. I tried to joke, telling that it didn't count because neither of us would have a broken rib. His response to that was that, if that was what would make me go, he would. I had assured him that, if it got much worse, I'd go if he asked.

Towards the end of October, I get a letter from dad. That in itself isn't unusual as we've actually gotten half-decent at writing to each other. But the contents of the letter is a shock.

Normally, we do our best not to mention Delphi, because neither of us need those sorts of reminders. Or, if we do have to say something, we blot out her name or we lower ourselves in. Except with this, he doesn't even try and ease into it, launching immediately into a long message about how something has happened and would I be okay to speak to her in a controlled circumstance?

I'm not. I'm not okay with even being in the same building as her. But according to him, 'it could be a matter of national importance', which doesn't really leave a lot of room to say no. But I'm really not okay with going near her. Because she's still the face of my nightmares.
"Albus," Scorpius looks at me. "Are you okay? You're paler than me."
"Dad," I mumble, "dad wants me to speak to – her."
"To...?"
"He wants me to speak to Delphi," my voice cracks. "And I...I really can't..."
"Why?"
"I don't know. He just does. And I can't but I should but I really – I really fucking can't."
"You don't have to," Scorpius takes my hand gently. "You don't have to go."
"I should," I mutter. "He says 'it could be a matter of national importance'."
"He makes a mountain out of a large molehill," Scorpius says firmly. "It won't be anywhere near as important as he's making out." A pause. "Look, Albus. Putting you and her in a room together, for any reason, is an awful idea."
"There would be other people in the room."
"Would you like me to come?"

I look hopefully at him, tears starting to form in my eyes. I'm so scared. I'm so fucking scared of her.
"Would you?" I whisper. "Would that be okay?"

He nods, pulling me into a hug. I breathe in shakily, leaning into his shoulder. The tips of his hair smell of cocoanut. He's warm. He's safe.