CHAPTER TWELVE
your dads are assholes

DEAR SAWYER,

I may not know much about magic school or whatever it is you magical people do, but I believe you've been under a lot of stress lately, mostly due to those exams your mother keeps talking about. OWLs, wasn't it? I hope you're working hard! Inside this package is your Walkman and the shoebox of cassettes you've asked for in your letter.

If you've got any questions for Astronomy class, feel free to ask! I may not know much about the magical aspects of whatever you're studying, but I do know tons about the practical, scientific stuff. Tell Wyatt I love him, would you? And please write back to your mother.

Go ace those papers, buddy.

Love,
Dad

* * *

SCAR TISSUE HAS NO CHARACTER. It's not quite skin—though it may resemble a plastic replica of dermis—but the main component of scar tissue is that it's meant to cover up destruction. A slipcover that shields and disguises the irreparable damage underneath from sight, yet remaining the most unsightly thing. It's a mark, essentially. It singles out those who have something to hide. That's why people grow it.

As Sawyer stares at the burn marks on her hands, the mottled tissue stretching and wrinkling with each flex of her fingers. Spread out into a web so stiff the bones in the back of her hand strained against her scarred skin, then clenched so tight into a fist that her knuckles blanched and her arms trembled. By theory, scar tissue should be the easiest to break. Weaker than ligaments, more brittle than her smiles, but even as she rubs and slices with the nail of her thumb at the thick, ridges, alternating pink and white and brick-red from different severities of burns she'd given to herself, it doesn't split.

Nobody's stopped her from burning herself. Nobody's looked close enough to her hands before to see the scars. Nobody's confiscated the lighter in her pocket that she never leaves her room without. So she'd kept on going. Kept on burning and burning and burning, hoping, secretly, that one day she'd be able to keep burning through her skin, watch the flesh blister and melt away to reveal bone. See what she's really made of. What if she was all rot and ectoplasm?

What if there was something darker inhibiting her skin? Perhaps that'd explain why she'd felt like an alien for the most part of her life. If her insides weren't her own, and her actions were powered by some diabolic entity taking control of her own brain, would people be more forgiving?

What if—

The door to the dorm room clicks shut. Sawyer looks up from her hands—now clenched into fists with the scar tissue stretched thin and straining at their edges clinging to her knuckles—to the Astronomy textbook and parchment and quills laid out on her bed for an essay that hadn't been written, and will never be written at this rate. Too wired to sleep, Sawyer had taken to attempting to do some homework while the mid-October rain fell in light sheets outside the window beside her bunk bed. It'd been over three hours with her wand lit up by a Lumos charm since it was too dark to see, and everyone else in the room had been fast asleep, and nothing had been put to ink and paper.

Footsteps pad lightly against the carpeted floor. Raindrops tap persistently at the window pane. There's a soft groan of wood and mattress springs as whoever had come in just now settles on their bed. Then a tiny click and the static drag of the tip of something sharp against vinyl. Sawyer goes still and leans back against the wall her bed is pressed up against. Her quill rolls off the edge of her bed and bounces off the shoebox containing all her cassette tapes with the tiniest thud, but the sound is lost as Strawberry Fields Forever by The Beatles croons to the rain.

Sawyer realises quickly that the only time she sees Quinn is at night, when they've retired to their shared dorm room. Even then, they almost never speak (except for that one time on Saturday) because either Sawyer's too tired out from Quidditch practice or Quinn's buried in her covers with her nose in a book with a metaphorical 'Do Not Disturb' sign floating above her head.

From Quinn's bed, diagonally across from Sawyer's, there's a soft whisper of Lumos, and a light flickering on from the tip of Quinn's wand.

Quinn looks up and meets Sawyer's eyes. Briefly, they hold cool gazes. In the soft patter of rain and the hazy serenade of The Beatles, they're just vaguely cognisant of the other three roommates dreaming and slumbering in beds just a few feet away.

Quinn cracks a smile.

Sawyer raises a brow and lifts up the Walkman on her bed.

Quinn's eyes light up. "You got it back!" she mouths.

"I'll let you take a look tomorrow," Sawyer mouths back.

Quinn nods earnestly.

Suddenly awake, Sawyer sweeps aside her homework and mutters, "Nox." The light goes out. Then, tugging a grey hoodie over her pajama shirt, Sawyer slips off her bed, and out the door.

Even when it's empty, the Hufflepuff common room never loses its lived-in ambience. Warmth hugs every corner of the room. As though it belonged to a very large family of vivacious children who loved all colours of the rainbow, with a particular fondness for yellow. If the sun had a bedroom, it might look like this one. Usually, the yellow would've bothered Sawyer to the point where she might've been annoyed. But tonight, she pays it no mind. Tonight, the wallpaper looks less imposing, less stabbing into the vision. An after-effect of what? Sawyer wouldn't know. All she knows is that she needs— no— wants to write to her dad again. Maybe it's her Walkman. Maybe it's who she's going to share it with.

A soft sniffle coming from the center of the room catches Sawyer's attention.

Scrubbing a hand through her knotted hair, Sawyer gathers it into a haphazard ponytail as she combs the room for the source of the disruption. Then her gaze lands on a head of pale blonde hair and a skinny body curled up on the lumpy couch.

A month ago today, Sawyer never would've stopped to notice these things. Perhaps, she would've noticed, but ignored the situation completely. A month ago today, Sawyer might've even walked past without even contemplating whether to approach, or let Violet Finch wallow in her misery. She's never had a penchant for dealing with someone else's feelings or giving kid-glove treatment.

Outside, the rain lashes against the glass window in tandem with Violet's quiet sobs, painting the room in shades of melancholy. Exasperated by her lack of choice in this department and the newfound calling of her conscience, Sawyer huffs and strides over to the side of the couch Violet's holed up in anyway, because as the three weeks Nia's relegated to getting Violet to prove herself competition-worthy are going by quicker and quicker by the day and Quidditch training under Oliver's maniacal drill sergeant regiment has been irrevocably wrecking their bodies, Violet's been looking in worse and worse shape. Where her initial adolescent glow had been, there is now a sickly pallor of someone about to regurgitate their breakfast in three seconds. Dark shadows had replaced the positive shine in her eyes. She's been looking much less perky these days, and more like a washed-out shell of existential misery.

What's evident is the stress that's taking it's toll. When Sawyer first met Violet, she was a little plumper and filled with a vibrance that seemed impossible to deplete. Now, though, what's even more glaringly perceptible is that she's been losing her appetite. Now, Sawyer could see Violet's collarbones jutting against her cream-white skin. Where there was flesh, there is now a gaunt, ghost-like translucent quality. As though one touch could make Violet disappear. Even Oliver's noticed. Sawyer's heard him mentioning it offhand to Violet before, a few times—you've got to eat more, kid. Has Sawyer been keeping you locked in a dungeon or something? Your diet isn't a joke here. You have to eat more to be able to sharpen your swings. The team can't afford a weak Beater.

Given time, Sawyer would've thought Violet might've felt more confident in her abilities, thus easing up the stress. Sawyer was feeling the pressure too. Not for the upcoming games, but for Violet. Though, the difference between them was that Sawyer knew how to detach herself from Quidditch, and shared no affinity for the team. However, Quidditch mattered to Violet, who would be devastated if Nia decided to cut her from the team and drag in an emergency replacement from the reserve Beaters next term.

As Sawyer's shadow falls over Violet's crumpled form, Violet's head snaps up. An enormous book on Quidditch techniques is laid on her lap, flipped to the middle. Beside her, a stack of books on Quidditch theory sits on a pink cushion. Violet swipes sheepishly at her red-rimmed eyes and a feeble grin curls her lips, but there's a tremble in her chest and Sawyer isn't fooled. "Hi, Sawyer, what— what're you doing up so late?"

Sawyer taps the stack of books. "I could ask you the same thing."

A blush blossoms on Violet's blotchy face. "It's nothing. I'm just stressed out, is all. It's really stupid, I don't think you'd care to hear it, anyway."

"It's not nothing if it's making you cry alone at midnight," Sawyer points out. "Walk with me. I'm feeling snacky tonight. You can tell me about it over some pancakes. Nothing says comfort food like breakfast at midnight, you feel?"

Hesitantly, Violet untangles herself from her little corner on the couch, but her eyes are more curious than wary. Hugging the enormous volume of Quidditch techniques to her chest, Violet follows Sawyer to the kitchen, just barely keeping up with the fifth year girl's quick strides.

"Hello," Sawyer greets the house elves as she leans against the doorway to the kitchens. "Would you guys mind if you could make us some pancakes. With extra syrup and clotted cream? Thank you."

Within minutes, after a flurry of bustling, some grunting, and the sizzle of a pan perfuming the alcove with the saccharine scent of sugar, a house elf sets two plates heaped with fluffy pancakes dripping with honey-gold syrup and a bowl of clotted cream on the table in the corner. Sawyer gestures for Violet to sit. Then, Sawyer takes the seat adjacent to hers.

Through a mouthful of pancakes and clotted cream, Sawyer makes Violet talk.

"It's about Quidditch," Violet says, quietly, picking up her fork and picking at the bottom of her pancake stack.

"I figured as much," Sawyer says, gesturing to the book lying in Violet's lap, a sleeping monster.

"If I don't make the cut for the team, I don't know what I'd do." Violet pales three shades lighter. Sawyer worries, for a moment, that it's not the garish lighting of the kitchen, but that Violet's turning green and is undeniably three seconds away from projectile vomiting.

"Why'd you want to make the team so badly?"

Violet goes quiet. In the ocean of a pensive silence, the sounds of midnight permeate the dim ambience. The plink-plinking of suicidal moths blindly throwing themselves at the lightbulbs above them, the hum of underground pipes, the inexplicable magic shimmering around Hogwarts, fading footsteps, the droning snores, the rustling of sheets and branches, and the occasional grunts of the house elves stir the air, sits between the two Hufflepuff girls in wait of words.

"I want my father to see that I'm not completely useless," Violet says, in a voice so shaky it could shatter glass. Poking listlessly at her nibbled-at pancake, she ducks her head down, lets the limp blonde locks of her hair slip over her face like a protective curtain. Even though Sawyer's expression hasn't shifted, Violet carefully avoids Sawyer's unwavering gaze.

A beat passes. Sawyer's still trying to absorb Violet's words. Violet's father thinks she's useless? The sheer notion sends a rush of anger boiling through her blood. It pisses her off to the point where she considers self-learning voodoo just to show Violet's father the true meaning of useless.

"You think Quidditch would make him see you as worth some value," Sawyer states, trying to make sense of Violet's aim.

Violet smiles sadly.

Sawyer's jaw flexes.

"He used to play Quidditch back when he went to Hogwarts," Violet explains. "I just thought that if I could be like him— I mean, I love Quidditch. I really do. It's not completely for my father either. But I just thought he'd finally be able to talk to me if I played too."

Sawyer regards Violet with a cool expression, but the ice in her words isn't intended for Violet. "Listen to me, very carefully. You are not useless. You're still young and you're learning things as you go. Are you completely educated on everything there is to know about magic? Not necessarily. And that's okay. It's okay to not know things. And it's okay to not be the best at Quidditch too, because that's not the point. You know how I know you're not useless? You're trying. you're actively improving. Even Oliver thinks you're getting somewhere, do you know how difficult it is to get that maniac to admit that? But don't, for one second, ever base your worth on what your father thinks of you. I can't guarantee anything, but I made my promise to you that I'd have your back, and I intend to honour my word. So you can stop looking like you're going to vomit any second and start eating properly. You're going to get into the team, and you're going to work with me because Merlin help me, I refuse to work with that obnoxious Daniel Kang boy."

Stunned, Violet blinks.

In the chaos of midnight, of the soft sounds of the school, of little girls shouldering a world of dreams too heavy for their narrow shoulders to carry and all the angry girls who'd sworn to keep their spines together, Violet and Sawyer can pretend that everything is fine.

* * *

RAIN LASHES AGAINST HER CHEEKS AS Sawyer catches up with Oliver on the ground, cold and stinging, tiny raking nails down her frozen skin. It'd been raining all throughout the night and well into the morning form the ungodly hours, slowly eating into their Quidditch practice, but Oliver only decided to call it a day when thunder growled at him from above. Behind the overcast sky, shining like liquid silver, the sun turns its back on the world.

As soon as the rain began falling in heavier sheets, pummelling the grass and the sand like a million minute missiles, Oliver pulls Harry and Violet under the shelter, where their belongings sit on the bench. Raindrops slide off Sawyer's face, trickling down her jaw. Wiping her face down with the crook of her elbow, Sawyer wrings her hair out, flicking water at the grass.

"Usually, I'd insist on playing through the storm because Quidditch doesn't stop just because the weather's a little unfavourable, but I think Sawyer might actually murder me," Oliver says, raking a hand through his dripping hair. Water droplets drip down his face and soak his grey hoodie. A grim smile paints his face as he meets Sawyer's amused smirk. "Recap. Harry, you go first. What do you need to watch out for next time?"

"Stay out of the way," Harry recites, wiping the fog from his circular spectacles. His dark hair is matted, sticking to his pale forehead and obscuring his lightning bolt scar, but his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are weary from the tireless drills Oliver had been throwing their way. "Learn to turn sharper, don't get scared of diving."

"Excellent. Violet?"

Violet's smile weakens. "I need to keep an eye out for everyone else. Not just for the Bludgers. I need to hit harder, be more confident with my aim."

With a satisfied nod, Oliver's mouth twists into a small grin. "Okay, then. Dry off, get to class."

Harry glances expectantly at Violet, who gathers her things off the bench slowly. His brows furrow. It seems as though Violet isn't as responsive to conversation as she typically would be. Sawyer wonders, for a brief moment, if it's got anything to do with their little talk last night. And as she observes Violet more, through periphery, she notes the dark circles ringing Violet's eyes hadn't lightened. In fact, they stood out more prominently against her stark white skin. Only when Violet trudges off towards the showers does Sawyer take her eyes off the disheartened slump of the girl's shoulders.

Yanking her hair tie out, Sawyer shakes her thick hair loose. It falls flat and knotted around her shoulders. She chucks her water bottle into her bag and turns to Oliver, who'd been eyeing her with a strange look on his face.

"See something you like?" Sawyer drawls.

Unfazed, Oliver cocks his head. "You're awfully attentive around Violet. Since when did you care so much about her?" Since when did you care about anyone else? echoed in the unspoken region of space between them.

"I made her a promise. I don't expect you to understand it."

"Humour me, then," Oliver says, crossing his arms over his chest. "We can afford to be a little late to breakfast. It's only seven."

Instinctively, Sawyer's lips twitch into a sneer, but it's lost its usual sting of venom. "She wants to make it onto the team, and I told her I'd have her back if she gave me her game." Last night's words flickered to the forefront of her mind. In the terrible lighting of the kitchen, perfumed by sugar and pancakes, of quiet words and weak smiles. "It matters to her too much." Sawyer pins Oliver with a searching look. "You understand that, at least, don't you? She says Quidditch is the only way to make her father even look at her."

A pained expression twists Oliver's features, but it passes quickly, an evanescent shadow slipping off his face. "Yeah," Oliver says, and his voice is tight, caught in his throat like there's too much he wants to say but doesn't know which order to untangle them from the trawling net in. "I understand."

"Do you?"

Oliver's smile is taut, a bruised and brittle thing. "More than you know."

For a nanosecond, Sawyer glimpses the vulnerable boy behind his valiant front. Under the Gryffindor facade of false bravado and flaming warrior spirit, there is something aching in the red of his heart. Something inexplicable that vanishes when he blinks and there is a stone mask again, repelling her from slipping under the armour. One way or another, she would find it again. What she'd do with it—she didn't know. Not yet. Though, she had a feeling he might tell her if she asked. But only now, when they were cocooned in a different world. Of thunderstorms masking the tremble in his voice and the sound of the rain bearing down on them with the vehement relentlessness that's missing in this moment of weakness. Away from the rest of the school. Away from real life. Somehow, she could see why—as pointless as Quidditch is to her—Oliver liked coming here so much. When the pitch was empty, it felt like a break in the continuum. One could spend forever in the peace that came with slipping into this parallel dimension.

"How interesting," Sawyer muses. She knocks her bag off the bench and plops down on the edge, gesturing for him to do the same when he shoots her a questioning look. "You said it yourself. We can afford to be a little late to breakfast. I told you a story, now you tell me yours."

Disbelief flashes across his features. Oliver looks away, then, but she catches the ghost of an amused smile on his face as he looks out over the Quidditch pitch. When he turns back to her, it's gone. Thunder cracks through the air. Lightning snakes out between the dark grey clouds, fissuring the sky. Sawyer tries not to think too much about it as he settles down next to her, hands braced on the edge of the bench.

"Guess it's only fair then," Oliver sighs. Uncertainty flickering across his face. He takes a deep breath, and she doesn't miss how his chest hitches a little.

"I'm listening."

"You ever wonder why I spend most of my summers with Wyatt at your house instead of in my own?" Oliver drums his fingers along the edge of the bench.

"Only every summer."

An ironic little grin curls Oliver's lips. "I don't like going home. It's too... empty. After me, my mum couldn't have kids, so there's a lot of expectation riding on me to be successful. You've probably noticed at Christmas dinners with our parents. My dad can't stop talking about how he's proud to have me as a son, but that only started after I took the title as captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Before that, I was basically nothing because I'm not that great at anything else. It's more annoying, really, but— whatever, it's not that important." He chuckles, but there's no humour there, and Sawyer wants to point out that he's lying through his teeth. But whether he's trying to convince himself or her, she can't decide.

"You're lying," Sawyer says coolly. Anger flashes in Oliver's eyes at her dismissive tone, but she waves a hand in his face to shut him up. "I'm not done. It's important, because it matters to you. You and Violet. Your dads are assholes. Don't say otherwise."

"You can say it."

"What?"

"Y'know," he says, a half-smile hanging off his lips. "It's kind of pathetic that I'm basically nothing without Quidditch."

Sawyer shoots him a flat look. "Don't be stupid. I'd never say that."

"Now who's lying?" Oliver smirks, pale eyes flickering over her face.

Annoyed, Sawyer flicks him on the arm in warning. "I've only ever called your obsession stupid because you expect too much from me. But I'd never call you nothing without Quidditch because it's not true," Sawyer points out. I know how it feels to be nothing, she wants to tell him, but can't find it in herself to say, because her heart is in her throat and his face is too close. I wouldn't wish it on you, because you don't deserve it. Instead, she leans back, watches as he ducks his head down to mask the shock, absorbing her words.

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Don't worry, there won't be a next time."

"You say that now—"

"Ninety-seven percent," Sawyer says, nudging his foot in warning.

Scoffing, Oliver gets to his feet, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. Come on, I'll walk you back to your common room. If I get a detention for tardiness because of you, I'll stick your face down the toilet."

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
violet: i have shitty parents
sawyer: fuck your parents. i'm your mom now.
oliver: oh no i might be dad

do we love mom-dad-baby moments?