CHAPTER TEN
grew up in counselling

ONE OF THESE DAYS, the Hufflepuff team was going to form a mutiny. It was already edging into the first week of October, Quidditch season was fast approaching on a collision course, and Nia had no reserves about working her players down to the bone, pushing and pushing to their limits without mercy. Determined as they were, the Hufflepuffs were slowly losing steam with each gruelling drill, even as they fought tooth and nail to keep up, to keep going, to keep their enthusiastic front up. At one point, Sawyer even overheard one of the Chasers contemplate under her breath the pros and cons of flying in a straight line from the pitch until the Whomping Willow took her out.

By now, Violet was at the ides of her three weeks to prove her position on the team. Time was running out, and while her learning curve wasn't a horizontal line, any improvement that'd shown itself from the first week had slowed its pace. That wasn't the most concerning issue, however. Day-by-day, the tiny pixie of a girl—who'd already been physically weaker than the rest to begin with—was starting to wear a little thinner, and her face was visibly less coloured in with life than when Sawyer has first met her. Something was off. But each time Sawyer asked Violet about her gradual yet noticeable change in appearance, Violet would plaster on a bright grin, muster as much conviction as possible in her already diminished state, as though she weren't on the verge of collapsing into dust there and then, and say, "I'm fine, Sawyer, don't worry about me."

The same mantra over and over again. Sometimes, Sawyer couldn't tell if Violet was trying to convince herself or Sawyer.

Albeit, Sawyer didn't buy an inch of Violet's lies. She knew there would be no point trying to force the truth out of Violet, hence, she'd resolved to keeping an eye on Violet.

This afternoon's training was graced by the absence of the sun, which came as a welcome change. With the elimination of the natural heat, came a surplus of motivation to keep fighting against the lethargy that ate away at their muscles and aching joints. Nia had organised a mock Quidditch match in the last hour of practice, including the reserve players. Three Chasers, two Beaters, one Keeper, and one Seeker on each side. When Nia allocated Sawyer to one team and Violet on the other, Sawyer fully expected Nia to crucify Violet while Sawyer wasn't there to clean up the jagged edges.

But between screaming instructions, there were the moments Nia showed her approval. And Sawyer played, half-hearted, with none of her head in the game, but watching Violet every step of the way, from the second they kicked off into the air and the scrimmage flipped on its head from competitive to aggressive.

"You're not marking the offensive close enough, Fletcher!"

"Heads-up, Harriet!"

"Bludger!"

A bludger shot past Sawyer, only missing one of the Chasers on her team by mere centimetres. Shaken, the Chaser righted herself before pursuing the Quaffle, now in the possession of the opposing team. Another bludger came hurtling towards a nearby Chaser in the back quarter of the home goal. Sawyer stared after it with cool eyes and no intentions of playing catch-up. The reserve Beater on her team would clean up after her anyway.

Nia flew by Sawyer, shooting her an annoyed look. "Are you playing or not?"

Smiling sardonically, Sawyer flipped the bat in her hands. "I don't know. Am I?"

Nia bristled, nostrils flaring. Anger glinted in the Hufflepuff team captain's eyes, but the sole thought floating to the forefront of Sawyer's mind was: finally. Years of pushing and pushing and pushing at all of Nia's buttons, and Nia had done nothing but reign her anger in under a toothy grin and words of encouragement. Perhaps now, she might be more inclined to shed the picture-perfect image, to break the sunny disposition and give way to the thunderstorm lurking offshore. It's a time long due that Nia cracked, gave up the diplomatic front, and bared her fangs. It's a time long due that any of Sawyer's team members got real with her. The closest Sawyer had come to unmasking their true opinion of her was with Harriet, who'd confronted her not too long ago in the locker room. With the way Nia was looking at her now, Sawyer was certain her captain was about to snap back. Finally. No more fake smiles. No more acting like she could actually tolerate Sawyer on the team.

As Nia flung her a glare with the murderous intent of a thousand daggers, Sawyer's shoulders tensed, a familiar spark running through her veins, waiting for the ignition. Inside, her energy coiled tight, ready to strike should Nia decide to finally act on her anger.

But the universe disappoints once more as Nia sheathes her temper. A tight smile blossoms on her lips.

"As long as it's not a problem during the inter-house matches," Nia said, tone edged with warning.

While she turned a deaf ear to Nia's irritated query, Sawyer deflected minimal bludgers from the offensive, taking out as many players as she could get away with, while Madam Hooch was on the ground, supervising them with a critical eye. But Sawyer knew that she was only there for regulation purposes. In other words, nobody could play without Madam Hooch present anymore. Sawyer had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with her.

After the hour wore off, with Sawyer barely skimming players with her bludgers and deflecting retaliation from the offensive team, Nia called them to an abrupt halt. The team touched down on the ground and gathered around Nia, red-faced and exhausted. Regarding her fellow teammates with a bright grin, Nia began her longwinded spiel about the upcoming matches, about the importance of teamwork and dedication. All of which Sawyer was present for, but absorbed not one word of. Up in the stands, she caught the Gryffindor Quidditch team warming up for their turn on the pitch, the red of their robes a bloodstain against the overcast sky.

"Alright," Nia said, tone stamped with finality, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Hit the showers, people. See you all again on Monday!" Then, Nia turned to Sawyer with a taut expression, slanting Violet a lingering look askance. "Hey," Nia said, lowly, catching Sawyer just before she could depart for the showers. "Don't forget, you've got one and a half weeks left to bring Violet up to par with competition standard."

Sawyer's lips twisted into a half-smile. "Relax—"

"No," Nia said, fierce insistence creasing her features. She pinned Sawyer with a hard look. "I know you've got something against the sport, but Quidditch means something to me. It means something to the others on this team. Now, I don't know what your deal is—"

"My deal is," Sawyer cut in, cocking her head, patronising cheer unfaltering as she met Nia's burning gaze with a mocking grin, "Quidditch is a pointless game. But you can trust me with Violet Finch. She'll be part of your well-oiled machine quickly enough."

My deal is that I never wanted to stay on this team. My deal is that this is my therapeutic extra-curricular to keep my anger in check. I tried out because Jeremy convinced me to, and somehow I found a place on this hopeless team. It's my outlet. I wanted no part of this. Dumbledore's making me stay. I would leave, but I risk having to join other pointless clubs and wasting more time.

Nia's jaw flexed. Her eyes glinted. Sawyer noted the tightening of her fingers around her broomstick.

Sawyer clenched her fists tight, wired for a fight.

"Is there a problem?" A cool voice spoke from behind Sawyer, whose expression betrayed nothing, even though she would give anything to be able to kick out Oliver Wood's knees without bearing the avalanche of consequences.

Nia blinked, surprise flashing across her face.

Oliver raised a brow at her, broomstick clutched in one hand. Behind him, the Gryffindor team had begun to assemble at the bottom of the pitch, away from the trio. "You're eating into my team's training time, Sparrow," he said, all frost and condescension. Even though Oliver was only a fifth year, he towered over Nia, who was one of the tallest seventh years Sawyer had encountered in this school. With all the warmth wiped from his stony features, schooled permanently into the default dispassion for anyone outside of his interest, Oliver could be considered intimidating.

But Sawyer could see past all of that. It came with practically growing up side-by-side with Oliver. Moreso reinforced since he was her brother's best friend, always glued together at the hip.

Snapping back into the present, Nia pursed her lips. "Right, right. Of course. Pitch's yours, Wood. See you Monday, Sawyer." Then, Nia strode off without another look over her shoulder.

They watched her go. Once Nia had disappeared into the girls' locker rooms, Sawyer turned to meet Oliver's sharp gaze. It'd been almost a week since they'd had that argument, and she'd spent most of that week avoiding contact, even during their private Quidditch sessions with Harry and Violet. With a barbed smile, Sawyer raised her hands in mock surrender before he could open his mouth to question her lingering presence on the pitch. "Cool your jets. I'm leaving."

"Wait—"

"Can't," Sawyer said, shrugging unapologetically. A shadow of hurt flickered across Oliver's face, so quickly she thought she might've imagined it, but Sawyer felt no such pinch of guilt as his words replayed themselves over and over in her head. If I'm being honest, I don't think you're trying at all. As with everything, she couldn't find it in herself to care if her casual dismissal had somehow dug into his feelings, wherever they were hidden. She still hadn't forgotten. Curse of a memory as sharp as a knife and as long as life. Most of the anger's subsided, but the bitter taste lingered. As far as her grudge went, she had nothing to say to him. "Got to see a man about some anger issues."

She didn't stick around to hear him out.

* * *

ON ANY TYPICAL DAY, Sawyer would rather stick her wand in her eye than walk into the library, where all that lay within essentially pronounced her concurrent stupidity. One book at a time, she could barely handle. A room chock-filled with books was an overwhelming overkill. It wasn't like she could read any of them, anyway.

Today seemed an exception.

Which was why none of her friends could find her during dinner, when she disappeared on them without a word.

Compared to most spaces within Hogwarts, the library was foreign territory to Sawyer, who hadn't set foot in the place since Jeremy organised that study group back in third year, which ended in them getting kicked out by Madam Prince. ("Them" being Rio and Sawyer and, by default and sheer proximity, Jeremy.) In the lost pocket of time where Sawyer had been sucked into the void, impervious to any efforts made by her friends to reach her, she'd been holed up in a secluded corner of the library, the furthest from the entrance as possible, but not quite breaching the Restricted Section. Nobody approached her as she spread her Charms homework before her and stared at it for moments too long to count for an organisational thought process. Nobody dared to even infringe on her little makeshift workspace within the "Muggle Classics" section.

Awhile ago, a tiny second year had turned the corner from one bookshelf over, took one step into the "Muggle Classics" section, spotted Sawyer—who only slanted him a glance so cold the air temperature dropped below sub-zero—and immediately turned back and sped-walked away.

Glowering, Sawyer dropped her gaze down to her empty Charms homework. The blank parchment glowered back. She'd written the word "the", but it was beginning to look all sorts wrong, the letter "h" looked less an "h" and more a "b". Why couldn't she get this one word—this one, fundamental word that even toddlers could spell backwards in their sleep—right? It wasn't fair. Plus there was a whole other page to fill with words that would just spit back the wrong shapes at her. Gritting her teeth, Sawyer seized her quill with trembling hands. Hands that itched to punch a hole through the shelves. And slashed a jagged line across the sole word on the parchment.

Earlier, she'd been called to Dumbledore's office to discuss her newfound condition. True to her word, Professor Sinistra had spoken to Dumbledore, who'd then spoken to Sawyer's other teachers. Dumbledore had then put her through a series of strange tests. In the end, results yielded the conclusion that Sawyer's condition was called dyslexia. Not stupidity, Dumbledore had said, with a pointed look. He'd said a lot of things afterward that she'd heard but didn't retain. Words that flew by her ears and out the window where she stared at the evening colours bleeding out the sky. Because if she even took one look at Dumbledore's face, the resilience on the inside might shatter. She didn't like that. Feeling fragile. Feeling anything at all. Resented it. And she resented Dumbledore for making her feel all tilted off-axis on the inside.

Truth be told, Sawyer was getting tired the interior of the Headmaster's office. Of the grey walls and its many hanging portraits squabbling and making a nerve-scorching ruckus in the background. Of Fawkes the phoenix gazing down at her from its perch with judgemental eyes. Of the purpose as to why she'd been summoned every week. Of talking and talking and talking about her anger and pretending she could leave these walls with some part of her all patched-up and one step closer to becoming like everyone else.

For the entirety of the hour she'd been sequestrated to the counselling session, she'd been flicking her flip top lighter on and off, watching the flame dance in the light draft sifting through the window, because it contemplating the opportunity for redecoration seemed more appealing than discussing her regenerating mental health, but quickly lost interest in the idea. Setting fire to the office would be too much work. Plus, there could be charms Dumbledore set in place to prevent such outbursts of various magnitudes. Sawyer couldn't have been the only pupil in the school to toss around the notion of destruction. So she resorted to letting the flame tickle her skin, relishing in the burn, the slow poison of pain killing her one layer of skin at a time. Scar by scar. Fading to numb.

Hence, the new burn marks scoring her knuckles.

Hence, the inability to meet with her friends. She felt like a vase on the verge of breaking. One tap and she might just fall apart into smithereens. If they pressed her for questions, someone might get hurt. The last thing Sawyer wanted was to hurt the people she cared about without necessity.

Hence, the library and the people with no backbone who left her alone to contemplate setting fire to her Charms homework.

It's in the library that he finds her, lighter in hand, the flame hovering over her fingertips, licking at skin and callouses and old burns.

"The hell do you think you're doing?" Wyatt demanded, looming over her, his shadow eclipsing the lights.

Jaw clenched, Sawyer flicked the flame off and the lighter vanished in a practiced move. "None of your business, brother."

To her annoyance, Wyatt pulled out a chair and planted himself into the seat beside her. Before she can react, he seizes her hands and turns them over. Pain contorts his features as he takes in the ruination of faded scars, the old burn marks, the angry, red skin. For once, Sawyer lets him look. For once, she doesn't slap his hands away even though his grip is weak and easily breakable.

"Why?" His voice is quiet. He looks up at her and in the tremor of his voice, the bobbing of his Adam's apple, she knows he's close to tears. Wyatt's always been the weaker one of them. Why? Why are you hurting? Why do you hurt yourself? Pathetic.

Sawyer's smile was small and cold. "Why do you care?"

Something in Wyatt's expression seemed to break there and then. Not just a clean snap. A shatter. Like the world was crumbling before his eyes and he was scrambling to hold onto every shard, cutting himself on the jagged edges, but still fighting, still holding on. The fact that she had that kind of effect on her brother was news. She hadn't known what was so wrong about what she said. Wasn't it the truth? Shouldn't he be happy that she's not outshining him in any way? That she'll forever be a fractured isolationist in the ever-expanding shadow of his perfection? That he'll forever be better because he's more sensible and she's just plain insensitive?

"I'm your brother," Wyatt said, and the words came out as broken as the tears that glistened in his eyes but couldn't quite fall. "Of course I care. I'm family."

Sawyer didn't buy it.

"That doesn't mean anything to me."

She ripped her hands away from him and picked up her quill with the intention of starting on her essay.

Hurt lashed across Wyatt's face. She didn't care for it. Why should she? He came here of his own accord when she just wanted to be alone. All her scars were her business. It had nothing to do with him. He had no right to question her coping mechanisms. He wouldn't understand, anyway.

"Does Oliver know?"

Sawyer's spine went rigid. She'd forgotten Oliver might've told Wyatt something about their faux relationship. Might've spun him the moronic story of their unexpected connection. Whether Wyatt truly believed it or not, Sawyer couldn't care less. She just wanted him to stop hovering.

"You guys are dating, right?" Wyatt asked, lips pursed. "He must know you've been... hurting yourself. He would've said something—"

"No," she said, because it was both truth and simpler that way.

"Then—"

"You can leave now," Sawyer deadpanned, turning back to her Charms homework with her blood roaring in her ears and her heart pounding against her ribcage.

With a weary sigh, Wyatt did as he was told. The moment he turned the corner, Sawyer let out the breath she'd been holding. But her body was still tense, wired for a fight. The surge of irritation that'd needled her veins lingered. A rampaging hurricane that wouldn't stop ravaging a demolished town. Something sharp dug demandingly into her palm. When she glanced down at her hands, at her blanched knuckles, at the chokehold she'd placed her quill in, she realised she'd snapped it in half.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
hello children!!!! next chapter will be a lot less painful to read ahahahah im sorry