❝ We don't even ask for happiness, just a little less pain. ❞ — Charles Bukowski

I had always been a fan of silence. Partly because of my quiet nature, partly because it allowed my brain to find inspiration for the art I brought to life on paper.

In Azkaban, the silence was always there, just like the oxygen in the air or our impending deaths by execution. You learned to acknowledge it, but not let it get to you unless to console you, on nights that got too loud from the screams of people who felt their sanity slipping or had nightmares each time they tried to close their eyes. In these situations, the silence was music. A temporary comfort. But no matter what, the silence was always there—inescapable and ever present.

This silence was a different kind, one I didn't like because it allowed my thoughts to run wild, but not the way I wanted them to. My mind traveled to past memories I didn't wish to recall. Meredith and Sophia. Zoë. Ilvermorny. My home in Asheville. Zoë. The pastor at my local church, who came over for dinner every Saturday. My old guard, Junius. My art studio, full of my old paintings. Zoë. Always, always Zoë, no matter what.

Bertha Merryweather entered and left the room every couple of hours to refill my glass of Dragon Pox Potion, force me to swallow down medicine that tasted like piss, occasionally change my pillowcase, when I sweated a lot. My sense of time was warped. Days, weeks or months could've passed by. All I did was sleep, drink potion and antibiotics, and have flashbacks of the past.

The day I had enough energy not to drift back to sleep after taking my potion, it was raining outside. One of the blue curtains of the ceiling-to-floor window was pulled back to reveal the gloomy skies, raindrops coating the glass. In the distance, the sea stretched ahead. The turbulent gray waters crashed into the cliffs that framed the bay of the manor, where a boat was anchored, stubbornly holding on, despite the tug of the waves and wind.

I looked around the room, the teal blue ceiling, vintage furniture made of white wood, the vase of red roses beside my bed. Right beside them stood the Crucifix. It was an arm's length from reach, but I made no attempt to grab it. The fear of the Devil's presence slithering back into it—as if attracted by the holy figure of Jesus, as if purposely wanting to taint it—held me back.

Even though I had passed the last days/weeks/months in a stupor, I'd felt in full control of my mind. I didn't want to risk losing that. God knows I haven't felt in full control of my mind in a minute.

"Ah, dear, you're awake."

Bertha Merryweather stood at the door, an apron tied around her belly, hair hidden under a floral bonnet. She held a tray of food and medicine, which she placed on my nightstand before sitting at the edge of my bed and pressing her knuckles against my forehead. Her hand was warm and gentle.

"You're looking much better." She smiled, dimples forming on both of her full, wrinkled cheeks. "I'm assuming you're feeling much better, too?"

"Yeah." I propped myself up on my elbows. She lifted my pillows to serve as a cushion as I got into a sitting position. "Thank you. You owed me nothin' and still you helped me. I wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for you."

"Oh, nonsense." She waved a dismissive hand. "What did you think I was going to do? Let you drop dead? I don't think so, young man."

"I didn't show much gratitude when I got here."

"It didn't seem like your temper was coming from within, though, was it?"

"No," I said. Almost too fast, too defensively. But I needed her to believe me. "I ain't like that. I ain't . . . I don't . . . I would never—"

Bertha put a hand on my shoulder and looked at me with the understanding gaze and benevolent smile of a mother. My chest tightened. I missed my mother. As dumb as it felt. But even when I'd been with her, last time she'd looked at me like that had been years ago.

The moment I hit puberty, she turned more into a teacher than maternal figure. Her love grew tougher, maybe in hopes that I would too. Mom always feared that if she didn't withhold affection, I'd grow too soft. But even when she did, that fear never left her. I suppose she was right to be afraid. It took the Devil to get a tough side out of me, and even then, I hadn't been the one in control.

"I am not mad at you," Bertha assured me. For some dumb reason, those words made me want to cry. I looked down and chewed on my lip. "Have a sip."

She handed me a glass of Dragon Pox Potion. The green liquid was warm and covered in bubbles. I swigged it down in three gulps.

"Better?" I nodded. "I brought you something to eat."

She put the tray on my lap. My mouth watered at the sight of the cheesy omelet, the toasted bread with a layer of butter spread on it, the mug of milk that emitted steam.

"Your friend Matthias mentioned that you're vegetarian, so I didn't put any bacon. If you want more, feel absolutely free to ask, dear. We have plenty of food here."

"Thank you," I said again.

I ate the breakfast in a silence interrupted only by the soft tap-tap-tap of raindrops against the window. Though I had lost appetite ever since I fell sick, my stomach welcomed the food, as if only then remembering that hunger existed. When I finished, Bertha made me have another glass of that disgusting medicine that tasted like piss.

"How long have I been out?" I asked.

"Just two days. I'd suggest you don't leave the room tonight, but you'll be completely healed by tomorrow."

"Can I at least take a shower?"

"Of course!" she exclaimed, like it had slipped her mind. "That reminds me, I'll go prepare the bath right this instant. I've got a fresh set of clothes for you as well."

I felt myself smile. It had been too long since I last had. I wanted to keep smiling and smiling. Maybe that would drive the Devil away and make him release his hold on me forever. Before I could thank her again, Bertha was on her feet and out of the door. When she came back, I saw she hadn't left my room at all, but instead entered the bathroom, which was the door right behind the vanity desk I'd mistaken for a broom closet.

"The bath is ready. I'll change the sheets when you get in, hm?"

"Okay," I said, not wanting to toss out another unnecessary 'thank you.'

I pulled back the covers, lowered my feet to the carpet and Bertha rushed by my side to aid me. My bones felt steadier, but I still held on to her arm as I padded to the bathroom. She showed me where the towels and shampoos were, then stood behind the door. I got undressed and stepped into the steaming bathtub that brimmed with bubbles. My skin melted under the hot water.

"I hope I've left you everything you might need," called Bertha. "But if there's anything else I forgot, don't hesitate to call. Okay, dear?"

"Alright. Thank you, Bertha."

I heard her steps retreat, the door of the bedroom close, and then let my head go under the bubbling water. The tub was deep—deeper than I'd thought. I felt my body sink under.

The water filled my eardrums and images of the giant waves crashing against each other rushed at the forefront of my brain. With one arm, I was holding onto Matt, with the other, trying to fight my way against the stormy waters. The rain hammered on my back. I thrashed my arms and pushed upwards with my feet. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die and nothing will stop that. Not even God can save me now. The water crept up my nostrils and filled my lungs.

I resurfaced, gasping. My elbows hit the surface of the tub. Foamy water splashed on the sparkling white tiles, soaking the blue rug.

"Gosh."

I held on to the edges of the tub, trying to still my racing heart.

My eyes sprang open and I willed them to stay that way; take in the sight of the white bathroom walls, the bathtub shaped like a seashell; convince my brain that I was safe. Safe, in a house where the Ministry couldn't reach me, with good folks who cared enough to keep me alive. Safe, away from the ocean, and gone was that awful night, where the waves trying to swallow me whole were nothing but a blur, and I came so close to Death I was practically staring him in the eye.

Because I was positive that if not the thunderstorm, then Dragon Pox would take me. That even though we'd made it out of Azkaban, there was no way out for me.

But even in those desperate moments, where I kicked blindly against the hungry ocean while praying to God either to save me or grant me His grace so that I'd finally find peace in the afterlife, the impossible happened. I survived when I wasn't meant to. For the second time. The Lord blessed me with one more miracle when I thought all hope was lost. The first had been Junius; the second came in the shape of a dolphin.

I scanned the bathroom. A purple bathrobe hung from a hook on the wall and a series of shampoo bottles lined the shelves of a cabinet decorated with sea stars. I reached for a bottle labeled 'hair.' My nostrils were still clogged up from fever, so I couldn't smell its scent, but I felt the smoothness of the shimmering liquid as it slipped through my fingers.

I washed my hair that had grown so long it now reached my shoulders—once, twice, three times, scrubbing my scalp as if the dark force that fed off my sane thoughts was a head louse I could get rid of. Each second I spent lying in the tub brought the memories of that hellish night closer, made them realer, more tangible. When I couldn't take it anymore, I stood up and drained the tub.

I reached for another container labeled 'body' and cleansed my skin using only my hands—though only when I got out of the bath, I saw there were sponges and scrubbers in the cabinets as well. I thought a bath would help bring my soul back in place. But as I stood in front of the mirror, wrapped in the purple bathrobe, still panting, I hardly felt better.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," I called.

The sound of footsteps, then the bathroom door creaked open and Matt's head popped in. His hair stood on top of his head in a bun, smooth and washed, and he wore clean clothes.

He met my eye in the mirror and smiled. "So you are doing better."

"The world ain't ready to let me die, it seems."

"Well, thank God for that."

"I do," I said. "Every minute."

He gave a chortle and stepped into the bathroom, sitting on the toilet that had the lid down.

"Nice place, this manor. Wouldn't mind spending the next two months here or so."

"I could use a break," I agreed. "But I reckon I'd lose my mind from sittin' around too long."

Matt studied my face. His glasses magnified his brown eyes and the concern twinkling in them.

"How are you doing, dude?" he asked softly.

I looked at my face in the mirror. "I need to shave."

"I mean, I didn't want you to flip if I mentioned it, but—" He snorted. "The beard doesn't suit you. Makes you look homeless."

"Well, ain't you a sweetheart."

"It's true!"

I turned on the faucet and flicked water at him. Matt cussed me out, laughing, and raised his hands to shield his face.

"I am doin' better, though," I said. "Thanks for asking."

His smile was strained. "I thought I lost you for a moment there."

"Well, I'm alright now. I've beat Dragon Pox."

"I wasn't just talking about that."

His eyes met mine and after so long, I could finally see the repressed pain in them, instead of the aloofness and dismissal that the Devil wanted me to see to feed into my ongoing anger. And I knew that Matt could see me too—me for me, just as he had all those times in Ilvermorny when we talked nonverbally, even before I discovered how we did it.

"How 'bout you?" I asked. "You okay?"

"Better than I've been in a long time. The food's great, we're safe, they got rid of my tattoo." He pulled the neckline of his shirt down to reveal bare skin where his Azkaban number had once been. "And they gave me a wand."

"A what?"

Matt stood up and pulled out a short, knobbly wand from his pocket. My jaw dropped. I reached for it in disbelief, but he pulled his hand away, grinning.

"Nuh-uh, sir. This is mine, so I can hex you for the major dick you've been this past month."

I lowered my head in shame. "Yeah, I probably deserve it."

"But to make this fair play, you'd need a wand too. So—" He took a dramatic inhale, then reached into his pocket and brought out another wand. "Ta da!"

I snatched it from his hand before he could pull it away. My hands shook. "I-Is this real?"

"Well, you can see for yourself if you don't believe me."

I gripped the wand in my left hand. It was just two inches shorter than the length of my forearm, but made of a smoother wood than my old wand. I gave it a swish, feeling the warmth coursing through my fingers. Blue sparks appeared out of the tip.

"Bertha got them for us," Matt said.

I couldn't take my eyes away from the wand. It had been too long since I'd last held one.

"Thank her for me when you go back down."

"You're not joining us for lunch?"

I shook my head. "Not today. She said I should rest until tomorrow."

An impish smile tugged at his lips, like he knew something I didn't. When I tried to catch his trail of thoughts, I was taken aback to find his brain locked from view.

"What?"

He shook his head dismissively and turned away. "Nothing."

"Alright, that don't sound like 'nothing' to me. And when did you learn Occlumency?"

"Picked up on it during our stay in the shed. I tried to see how Polly did it, and slowly learned. Not that there's much private up here—" He tapped his temple. "But I wasn't holding up as well as I seemed, and . . . well, I didn't want y'all to know."

Matt glanced down. "But someone had to do it, you know. Swallow all that shit up and pretend to be okay. Polly especially needed it." He shot me an accusing look. "Given that you were making everything worse."

I felt the heat of shame rush to my face again, stronger this time. I dreaded the moment I'd have to face her.

"How is she?"

"Worried. About everything, including you. Keeps asking Bertha what we gotta do next." He released a tired laugh. "Man, I really wouldn't mind if we sat back to catch a breather. Business can wait."

"If only." I turned the wand over in my hand with a deep sigh. "Nothin' can wait anymore, Matt. The Ministry's after us. A war is coming."

I shuddered at the thought as soon as the words left my mouth. I wasn't ready to face whatever came next.

"Me neither," he said, reading my mind. "But we could brush up on our duelling skills for now. Wally said he'd teach us, and you bet your ass I'm not gonna pass up on that."

A fool's grin flickered on his face. I scoffed, rolling my eyes.

"Just don't get ahead of yourself, alright? You don't know if the guy swings that way yet or not."

"Oh, I know he does." Matt smirked knowingly. "He just asked me yesterday if Polly and I were an item." He snorted. "I told him 'I love her, but she's not really my type.' He went all giddy when I said that. And, just to make sure my gaydar was correct, I asked him about his love life today. He said he's single, and not into girls either, so I think it's safe to say ya boy has a pretty good chance."

I gave him an impressed smile. "Look at you go. It feels like just yesterday when you were that awkward fourth year Matt Finley stuttering to ask Miguel Davidson out."

"Okay, what we're not gonna do is talk about that embarrassingly low point in my life."

I laughed. "Well, go ahead shoot your shot with Wally then. I'm rootin' for ya."

"You bet I will. Four months in Azkaban, and the first person I meet when I get out is some crazy hot guy, who's both single, and showing signs of being into me? I'd be an idiot to pass up the chance."

The mention of Azkaban made the short lived joy of that lighthearted conversation vanish in an instant. Immediately, my mind traveled back to all the horrors I'd endured inside, then to Stella, to Zoë . . .

I shook my head forcefully to push the unpleasant thoughts away. "Hey, uh, could you ask Bertha if it's possible to get me a journal? And a pencil? Been a minute since I've drawn anything."

Matt snorted. "Fucking nerd."

But he looked happy as he said it—happy in a way I hadn't seen him in so long, in a way that reminded me of the old, pre-Azkaban Matt Finley. Despite everything, I smiled. I'd missed this version of him more than I had bothered to acknowledge.

"Okay, then." He opened the door and started to walk out. I caught sight of a pair of fresh clothes laid out at the foot of the bed. Bertha had changed the sheets to a set of lime green ones. "Get rid of that atrocious beard, will you? I'll bring you some more Horklump Juice."

Suddenly, I remembered that I was still on my bathrobe.

"Gotta get rid of the hair too," I said. "Don't wanna be lookin' like you."

"Bite me, Theo. My hair's fabulous. You wish you looked like me."

"Do I, though?"

He flipped me off. "But really, don't bother. Someone else can give you a haircut. Even better than you can do it yourself."

"Huh?"

That mysterious impish grin flickered to his face again. "Tomorrow."

Before I could say another word, he was out of the door.

I frowned, looking down at the wand in my hand. Outside, the rain had picked up its pace, now pouring in buckets. War was coming, and just as I'd told Matt, nothing could wait anymore. But I had overcome a disease that almost killed me. I was given a wand, food, fresh water. I would get to draw again. And for the first time in so long, I felt in full control of my brain. The Devil's tempting whisper had gone silent—and for the time being, this silence, I planned to cherish.

The Crucifix lay beside the vase of red roses on top of the dresser, like a forgotten heirloom. I got dressed, then reached for it and knelt by the bed, resting my chin on my joined hands.

"Heavenly Father, thank you for the gift of another day. Thank you for hearing my cry and saving me. Remind me that everything I have, even the breath that allows me to pray this prayer, is a gift from you. May I rejoice in the generosity you have shown me. May you grant me the strength to carry forward."

I pressed a kiss to the Crucifix. The metal burned against my lips. "Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

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the way i would risk it all for Theo Ransom i'm— 🤧🤧

ok so Theo's behavior has been very OOC lately (bc reasons) but i hope this gives a bit more insight on what's it been like for him bc i don't want u guys to hate him or think he's toxic 🥺 it will all make sense eventually, i promise!

also pls don't pay me dust, i wrote this while being sick asf with the flu ;(