CHAPTER EIGHT
filling the void

THREE DAYS PASS, blurring in periphery in snapshots of film, strung together by spaces of moments Sawyer doesn't remember. Lately it feels like she's been drifting through life as a ghost, watching the hours pass while she goes nowhere. While she's stuck in the cyclical routine of classes, transition periods, Quidditch practices, seeing the same faces over and over, homework by wand light and sleep, with nothing to look forward to.

It's not depression, Sawyer doesn't think. She's not sad. Just empty of life. Dumbledore opposes her dismissal. Depression isn't just sadness. There's no way to be sure it's what she has, so she doesn't have to be worried about that, he'd told her, as though she cared enough to concern herself with her own welfare. As if giving it a label would improve matters. The anger would still be there, burning in her gut, wicking off her shoulders like smoke. She would still be half human, half void, sucking out every ounce of life in the room in her interminable search for feeling. It's been awhile since she's felt anything but numb or helpless.

At breakfast on Friday, Sawyer is the last to arrive in a thunderstorm of chronic angst and muscle ache. This morning's 5AM Quidditch session with Oliver, Violet, and a more substantially fed Harry had carved out all her energy, and with the way the two younger Quidditch players had limped off the pitch with their arms looped around each other's shoulders in support, Sawyer would say she wasn't the only one in rough shape. With every breath, she could feel every inch of her body straining to stay upright. With every searing ache and groan of her bones, she cursed Oliver to hell. She passes the Gryffindor table, where Wyatt and Oliver sit, somewhere in the flames of red and gold ties, and the vituperation in her head grows louder, as though hoping—by Legimency—Oliver would be able to hear every one of her amplified acidic thoughts.

Seated in their usual corner of the Slytherin table, Jeremy and Marcus have their heads bent together, a heated discussion on rapid-fire speed hissing between them. Rio has his head in his hands, a distressing waver to his form. His plate of waffles sits before him, untouched.

"What's up?" Sawyer asks, dropping into the empty space beside Rio. Instantly, Jeremy and Marcus fall silent, exchanging worried glances. It's then that she notices the Advanced Potions Making textbook, flipped open to the contents page, on the table between them.

Dropping his hands from his face, Rio lets out an agonised groan, and rocks forward abruptly like he's a nanosecond away from hurling. "Fuck off."

Sawyer patronises Rio with a vacant grin. He bristles, but the glare he slants her is blunted, absent of it's usual razor edge. There's no heart in his hatred, no teeth in his bite. Something's gone terribly wrong.

"He's going through withdrawal," Jeremy explains, running a hand through his fair hair in frustration, as Sawyer fixes Rio with a pensive stare. "We haven't been able to brew him the Draught of Peace in the past day and a half because the school ran out of stock for powdered moonstone. I asked Professor Snape when the new shipment would be in because I wanted to practice for my O.W.L.s, and he told me it'd only arrive in a week's time. Until then, we've got to find another solution." He gestures to the textbook. "There has to be an alternative somewhere."

"How many doses does he need?" Sawyer asked.

"Two a day," Jeremy grimaces. "He's missed too many."

"He couldn't sleep last night," Marcus adds, pursing his lips. "Says he's been burning up with a fever one minute, then freezing to death the next."

On the train to Hogwarts, Rio had confessed to slipping back into old addictions and old habits. The moment they set foot in Hogwarts, Sawyer made him throw out his weed stash, made him promise to quit for good at the risk of severing his spine. Until recent, Jeremy had been brewing him potions to stave off the withdrawal symptoms. If Rio had been smoking any time between now and the start of the term, Marcus would've told her. In the back end of their fourth year, before they'd made their New Year resolutions, Rio had been an avid smoker, something that Marcus never liked. They got into multiple explosive arguments about it, until Marcus gave Rio the ultimatum: lose the weed, or lose him.

It didn't take a genius to figure out which one Rio chose. But it became clear, at the beginning of this term, that Rio wasn't invincible. Quitting cold turkey hadn't been as effective as they'd all assumed. Sawyer wondered what Marcus thought of his boyfriend's recent relapse.

Ignoring Rio's palpable animosity, Sawyer presses two fingers against his neck. Even before her fingers could graze his skin, she could already feel the heat radiating off him. He flinches as Sawyer takes him by the chin and forces him to face her. Under her rough grip, Rio shivers, but it's not from the ice in her scrutinising stare. Not from the ungentle way her fingers dig into his skin. His shoulders tremble, and the customary defiance in his dark eyes is a diminished shell. Shadows haunt the spaces under his eyes, shifting and wearing at his skin, his dark complexion washed out into a deathlike pallor. She studies his pupils, and although he can't quite meet her cool stare, they weren't dilated. Which meant he hadn't been using. His sudden landslide into withdrawal could only be attributable to the lack of the potion suppressing his symptoms.

"You kept your promise," Sawyer muses.

"Of course I did," Rio growled, ripping her hand away from him. His fingers twitched irritably. Today was going to be a struggle. Both to keep Rio standing, and to keep him out of a fist fight he wouldn't be able to win. Not in this sickly state. "I dug my own grave, remember? Now I'm lying in it. Feels fucking fantastic."

Marcus frowns, and reaches over to lay his hand over Rio's in a gesture of comfort. Rio sighs, and starts bouncing his knees agitatedly.

"We'll find something," Jeremy says, quickly, but the reassurance in his voice is faltering at best. If they didn't find a substitute within today, Rio couldn't attend Quidditch practice. If couldn't attend Quidditch practice, they'd have to put him in the infirmary as a legitimate reason for his absence, and Madam Pomfrey would get involved. If Madam Pomfrey got involved, she'd find out that Rio wasn't just down with a simple case of a cold, and his problem would be out in the air. The last thing they needed was Rio getting into trouble with his father and his violent temper.

"You're just going to have to stick this one out today," Sawyer says, resolutely. Then she turns to Jeremy. "What do muggles do when they're dealing with withdrawal?"

Jeremy's brows cinch in thought. "Rehabilitation?"

Sawyer shakes her head. "Not an option."

"We could try to ask Snape some questions," Marcus suggests, rubbing his thumb over the back of Rio's hand in listless circles. "There's always a solution."

"Or maybe I'll just die," Rio groans, pushing his breakfast around with the tip of his fork.

"If you die, I will kill you," Marcus snaps. "What you need to do is stop playing with your food like a child and eat."

Then, against Rio's protests, Marcus crams a cube of watermelon into his mouth.

* * *

DURING POTIONS CLASS, Jeremy swaps places with Marcus in the back of the classroom and holds Rio steady as he brews their Calming Draught, while Sawyer sacrifices her grade with Marcus Flint as her equally helpless desk partner.

"You think we could use that Calming Draught to substitute for the usual Draught of Peace?" Marcus asks, keeping his voice low, as they file out of the classroom with Professor Snape's newest essay assignment weighing on their backs. "I mean, it should keep the irritability at bay, wouldn't it?"

Jeremy hums pensively. "No, I don't think it works that way. Calming Draught only targets extreme emotions, like trauma and shock. It's not the same."

"Could we give it a try?" Sawyer asks, readjusting Rio's arm, which was slung over her shoulder while he used her and Marcus as makeshift crutches.

"If it royally fucks up my body, my blood is on your hands," Rio snaps, scowling, some of the colour in his face gradually returning. "God, what I'd give—"

Sawyer digs her fingers into his ribs as a warning.

Rio hisses in agony, but doesn't snap at her. He's shivering again, though his skin is hot to the touch. Even in the chilly September air, beads of sweat have begun to collect on Sawyer's temples. Their next class was History of Magic, which seemed to stretch further from the Potions dungeons than necessary now that she was bearing Rio's weight. Jeremy walked ahead, smiling at the students pouring out of classrooms as the hallways began to fill like a canal after a thunderstorm. Boys and girls in singles and clusters with their arms laced together, in robes of black with slivers of their House colours slipping in and out of periphery, head to head, hip to hip. Each face, an unmemorable smudge in her head, a nebula swallowing her brain.

The nebula dissipates by the time they turn to shoulder Rio up the stairs.

Someone bumps into Marcus, shoulders colliding—not an involuntary jostle in the tight stairwell, but a hostile jab. Marcus stumbles, jerking both Rio and Sawyer backward as he casts an annoyed glower over his shoulder.

"What's your problem, asshole?" Marcus snarls sharply, in a voice like venom. Nearby, the students within hearing range stop and stare, wide-eyed and holding their breaths.

Jeremy plants a hand on Sawyer's shoulder. Stand down. She shakes him off. They were sequestrated from the rest of the school where the classrooms were. Which meant there would be no teachers around. She'd have a clear shot and at least a two minute window before someone could call for a teacher and she could be whisked away to Dumbledore's office to be detained.

The boy spins on Marcus, the bright red of his Gryffindor tie catching in the light. "You were in my way, faggot," he growls, eyes blazing, lip curled back to bare his teeth.

           A hot slash of anger tears through Sawyer's veins. Nobody talked to her friends like that. And before Marcus can react, before, Jeremy could hold her back, before the Gryffindor boy can see her coming out of the corner of his eye, she lunges.

          Fingers clawed, she seizes the boy's collar and slams him against the wall. The back of his head cracks against the wall from the sheer impact. Even though he towers over her, a whole head taller, Sawyer isn't fazed by this empty intimidation. She digs her knuckles into his windpipe, a vacant smile spreading over her lips. The boy's nostrils flare and he clamps a hand around her wrist and pulls. But Sawyer doesn't budge. Still, he doesn't seem like the type to turn on his back and accept the humiliation like that.

          "I don't like that word," Sawyer says, in a voice made of blades, cocking her head as he struggles against her, clawing at her forearm, raking these aggressive red lines down her skin. But the adrenaline coursing through her veins is enough to numb her to the entire world.

           "How characteristic of you," the boy hisses, "a witch who goes for her fists instead of reaching for her wand in a fight."

           His hands dart towards his pocket, but before he can reach his own wand to hex her, she rears her free arm back and jams her knuckles into his solar plexus. He doubles over, groaning, as all the wind knocks out of his lungs. Marcus grins as he saunters over and plucks the boy's wand from his pocket and waves it before him. People often forget that, in a fight, your eyes have to be everywhere. In a fight, you can't watch their eyes without watching their hands. Intention and action. Both operate in tandem.

           "What's the matter?" Sawyer muses, heart pounding against her ribcage, blood roaring in her ears and the distinct thrum of life pumping through her veins. This is how you know you are alive with your fists covered in blood and a smile like you're about to tear someone's throat out. "Not so brave after all now that you're without your magic, hm?"

           "You bitch—"

         Her fist cracks him across the face. His head snaps to the side. Rage thunders across his features. It happens so quickly no one knows how the dynamic shifts. One moment he's seething under her chokehold, the next he's shoved her off and punched her in the face. Pain explodes under her right eye, but the new lick of anger burning up her insides keeps her from losing sight of what was right in front of her. The boy smiles, advancing with a leonine arrogance.

           Snarling, Sawyer surges forward and tackles him to the ground.

           They go down, grunting and snapping, teeth gnashing and fists swinging in a flurry of elbows and knees and knuckles colliding. His head just misses cracking open on the first step as they land.

          Logically, Sawyer knows she should be going for the breakable parts, the weaker points of the body that would end it all there and then. But with the sting of blood in her nose and the blood spraying from the boy's mouth as she throws her elbow into his jaw and the undeniable beat of you are alive you are alive you are alive pulsing in every corner of her body, electrifying and all-consuming, she doesn't think she wants to stop. Doesn't want to stop the rush in her bloodstream as he gets her with a fist to the gut and as she slams her fist into his jaw and hears the distinct crunch of bone breaking. Doesn't want to stop as he lets out a shattered howl of agony and she keeps swinging and swinging and swinging. Doesn't want to stop the uncaged anger, letting loose after years of containment.

           Because, finally, there's this outlet. Ugly and terrifying and purifying. It comes pouring out of her, a channel for the inferno. Through the pain singing through her body as she absorbs hits and then again through her fists as she rains powerful blows to his face while he cowers under her.

          And she doesn't think. So she doesn't stop. The boy puts up a good fight, a valiant opponent of no honour and cheap shots. Just her kind of fight. He's got size advantage, built like an Adonis, and a lethal heaviness to his bones, but Sawyer is gasoline and fiery fury and she spends her summers running around Bristol with the neighbourhood punks and being the Hufflepuff Quidditch team's Beater has given her the upper body strength of a storm god. So she rages and rages and rages and all around her, the world kicks into motion as the crowd sifts and jeers, forming a ring around the two combatants like moths to a flame as they scream in horror and chant, "fight! fight! fight!"

          "Wait, guys! The House points!"

          "Oh, fuck, someone stop her!"

           "Hell, no," a redhead boy cried. "You do it, I'm not doing it!"

          Even as the distinct, high-pitched wail of YOU'RE GOING TO KILL HIM fills her ears, she thinks, yes, he deserves it. He deserves it, he got me angry, it's his fault, he deserves it.

          In one fluid motion, he's thrown her off him and is backing away, chest heaving, blood pouring down his face from a vicious cut under his eye where she'd scratched him.

          He doesn't get very far.

          In a flash, she has him up against the wall, again, with a hand around his neck and her flip top lighter in the other. She flicks the flame on and brings it a hair's breadth away from the skin under his eye. Sweat trickles down his neck. A vein in his temple pulses. But he doesn't fight her at the risk of burning his eye out. They're both bruised and bleeding and panting hard but Sawyer keeps her cool. The anger's still there, luring her into the urge to start another fight. But she doesn't submit to the temptation. It lords over her, flexing its claws and stretching its jaws, all teeth and rearing chaos.

          "What's your name?" Sawyer asked, as she tightens her fingers around the boy's throat, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to let him know she could crush his windpipe if he so much as breathed wrong. His blood slips under her nails, and a little piece of his skin is buried under one of them. One piece of him she will take and leave a stinging hurt in her wake. The muscle under his eye trembles and the bleeding scratch she'd given him gapes at her. Her mark is deep. Deeper than she'd thought.

           "Leo," said the boy in a breathless wince, chest stilling. "Leo Chapel."

          Sawyer waves the lighter and watches his eyes widen in fear as the flame sways this way and that. Out of her peripheral view, she spies the crowd parting, someone pushing and shoving their way to the front of the commotion. In a practiced move, the lighter vanishes somewhere into her robes, and Leo drags in a quaking inhale.

         A warm hand clamps over her shoulder and pulls. Sawyer whirls round, eyes sparking. Only to face Wyatt, who grabs both her wrists before she can swing at him too. Anger boils deep within. How dare he try to play the hero today?

          "Fuck off," Sawyer growls, straining against him. But his vice-like grip only tightens. Over his shoulder, Sawyer catches Oliver crossing his arms over his chest and staring back, unimpressed. She ignores him.

           "Stop it," Wyatt says, firmly, through gritted teeth. "You've already won. Stop hurting him."

          "He deserves it," Sawyer hisses, and shoves against Wyatt, whose expression flares in warning as a professor hurries into the stalemate. Resentment burns under her skin.

          "Mum is going to slaughter you."

          Sawyer lets out a shattered laugh, a dark and bitter thing. "You think I give a shit about what mum thinks?"

          "You know what?" Wyatt snarls. "I do. I think you care more than anyone else. You're just too ignorant to see that."

          "EVERYBODY GET TO CLASS!" Professor McGonagall screeches, an icy rage contorting her features. Silence crashes like a wave over the crowd. Reluctantly but immediately, the crowd trickles away, until the stairwell is empty save for Leo Chapel, Sawyer, Wyatt (still holding onto Sawyer's wrists), Oliver, Rio, Marcus and Jeremy. Marcus is making a Herculean effort to suppress a smile. Rio is pale-faced and still nanoseconds away from vomitting but looking a lot less irritable. Jeremy's smile is blindingly charming as he attempts to work his charisma around their Transfiguration teacher. But McGonagall is having none of it as she slants a warning look at the three Slytherins and the two uninjured Gryffindors. "You five as well. Go. Before I take twenty points off for each and every one of you."

          Wyatt began to argue. "Ma'am—"

          "Not a word, Mr Lee," Professor McGonagall cuts him off. "Class. Now."

          Before departing, Jeremy casts a concerned glance at Sawyer. She shakes her head at him as she rips her hands out of Wyatt's grip. Wyatt turns to shoot Sawyer a lingering look before following Oliver—who consistently looked about bored to death, probably because this wasn't Quidditch related—up the stairs.

          With a sardonic smile, Marcus flings Leo's wand to the boy's feet, as though he were throwing a bone to a starving dog. It lands with a clatter akin to breaking glass in this palpable silence, and almost rolls off the edge as the flight of stairs shifts with an ancient groan. McGonagall freezes it mid-roll with a wave of her wand.

            In the stormy silence that ensues, Sawyer barely pays Professor McGonagall's cutting glower any mind as Wyatt's voice rings in her ears. Loud and fresh. I think you care more than anyone else. You're just too ignorant to see that. A fucking idiot, Sawyer thinks, disdainfully, as the urge to chase her brother down the hallway just to hit him so hard he couldn't speak slices through her veins, muscles rewiring themselves for another fight. What did he know about her? How dare he claim to know even a smidgen of what she feels? She's not the ignorant one here. He is.

          "I am absolutely disgusted by this behaviour," Professor McGonagall snaps, flinty eyes flashing as her heated gaze passes over Sawyer and Leo. None of them spoke a word, just took the berating in stiff silence. "Violence is never the answer. I'll be taking fifty points from each of your houses. I don't care who started the fight. Now, come with me. Mr Chapel, seeing as you've sustained more injuries than Miss Lee, you will be taken to the infirmary first. Miss Lee, you'll be heading straight to the Headmaster's office."

          Professor McGonagall strides ahead, expecting them to follow. And they do, because what other choice do they have? As they walk in a heavy silence, Leo steals furtive glances at Sawyer. Satisfaction curls in her gut when Sawyer turns to meet his eyes and he flinches by instinct. And that's when she knows, with a sickening flicker of delightful familiarity, that when they catch each other's eyes in the hallways again, muscle memory will take over and he will flinch and head the opposite way. Just as Frank Geller had after the incident at the beginning of first year. Just as he still does, even though the incident that'd almost cost him his brain happened over four years ago.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
no oliver x sawyer content but still important!!! i havent really been addressing rio's weed addiction and this is why. also!!!!! pls be forgiving!!!! i cant write action scenes ugh im STILL WORKING ON IT!!!!