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mageathenaeum-hl · 2 years ago

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Let Me Be the One to Save You

Summary: Garreth reflects on a year having past since he'd met the Hero of Hogwarts, and struggles with his ever developing feelings. He goes out foraging one morning, unaware of just how indispensable his existence is about to become for MC.

Rating: T Status: unfinished/draft Word count: 5677

Tags: unnamed MC, POC MC, seemingly unrequited love, pining, jealousy, blood and injuries

Happy Weasley Wednesday! ❤️

Garreth really tried not to think about her. Not about her long, lush curls of ebony hair which bounced when she walked, light and springy like weightless cotton, reaching all the way down to her hips. Not about her chocolate coloured, smooth skin, nor piercing russet eyes that seemed to burn constantly with an intimate fire whenever she would look at him.

Not about the way the twilight that was her general appearance, the epitome of a night sky absent of stars, paired so well with the Gryffindor reds and goldens she always wore, making her the very image of fiendfyre and coal, of power and vigour.

He had no right to allow his eyes to wander to her in class, covertly tracing her figure below her robes, or his ears to tune into the pleasant melody of her voice when she would speak with her friends in the common room, muting all other background murmur, and lulling him in an odd, sleepy trance.

Just because she had helped him once or twice with gathering his ingredients.

Just because she had never said a word of dismissal of himself, or his ideas, thus opening up an entirely private floodgate of deeply buried insecurities, and baseless hopes for acceptance.

Just because she was the only one to encourage his potion making, and endeavoured to brainstorm with him on his recipes on occasion, despite not being of much help, even going as far as to consult with some of her Ravenclaw friends, and Professor Sharp and Madam Scribner both for resources.

A scarce few episodes of receiving a miniscule amount of unassuming kindness could not be all it took for him. Seriously.

Why the faculty found her more agreeable than himself, even though he always tried to be friendly and amiable, he could guess, but it vexed him regardless of the reasons. It vexed him that she succeeded where he failed, always. Even his aunt Matilda seemed to like her more than him, her own nephew. (Granted, one of many, but still.)

She was a beast on a broom, both in class and on the Quidditch field. A master duelist too, the likes of which not even Sebastian Sallow had a chance of beating. The pride of Gryffindor House, that one.

Speaking of Sebastian Sallow. He was often with her, and so was his closest chaperone, Ominis of the infamously prestigious House of Gaunt. Garreth did not know the two well; just as classmates at best. They had barely exchanged a few sentences between themselves over the years.

Sallow and Gaunt appeared to Garreth sometimes like her footmen, other times like her bodyguards, though he highly doubted she had needed any, probably ever. At yet other times, the three seemed close-knit friends, bonded in spite of the intensive house rivalry and other obvious societal differences within a relationship built on mutually private secrets and inside jokes.

Others flocked around her too, almost like wasps around a glass of sherbet, hoping for a taste of the sugary drink that was her good favour. There would have been more of them no doubt, had she been pureblood and pale as well, on top of her heroism, charisma, and the fame she had garnered during her first year at Hogwarts (ironically as a fifth year student). Her connections and strength alone lured purists like Duncan Hobhouse and Malfoy to at least take a passing interest, if nothing else then out of sheer curiosity.

The sweetest flytrap, that one.

The sheer volume of male company in particular got a little less the closer she had grown to Sallow, however, and this too vexed Garreth, almost equally as much. It irritated him that he had evidently been grouped with the others, even though he was sure he was not on their level.

He was not as vile and superficial as many of them had been, nor did he behave as such. No, what he felt for her was more on the level of admiration, or adoration, patterned with envy – sentiments the likes of which would fit in a book similar to that of Rumi’s poetry.

If he allowed himself to write poetry, or if he had even been any good at it.

So, Garreth tried not to think about her. Not during the school year, and not during the summer. Not to write about her in his diary, and not to strike through any and all paragraphs of his reminiscence on her when it happened to flow out of his half-aware quill. Not to allow daydreams to encroach on his homework and his brewing, or keep him distracted from his reading, or quality time with his friends and family.

Year Six, Semester One, a week before Halloween

Hector told him he had been acting strange recently. Leander informed him, somewhat guardedly, that he had been oddly irritable, and asked him what had been wrong that morning during breakfast. Natsai observed him, ever since they had crossed paths in the common room earlier, with an odd sparkle in her dark eyes that seemed full of curiosity she dared not openly voice, rather opting to lie in wait for the perfect opportunity.

He needed to get away from everyone for a while, Garreth realised with a sigh.

She was not present at breakfast. Neither was Sallow, he noticed, despite himself.

But Garreth did not think about it. Did not dwell on it. Not at all.

With an empty smile and an equally empty excuse of going foraging presented to his friends and brother, he exited the Grand Hall through the closest door which led outside, and summoned his broom as soon as he was under the clear sky.

Once mounted and off the ground, his lungs quickly filled with fresh autumn air. Scents of wet grass and leaves mixed with those of morning dew and gusts of Skiron as landscapes zipped past and below him.

He cruised above the South Hogwarts region for a while, in the end deciding to make good of his excuse. Leaning to his dominant left, he let himself hang upside down for a while, eyes closed as he allowed his broom to sail on the air currents, taking him in any direction the wind and his mount agreed on.

His brew of the day will depend on whatever he will end up harvesting, he supposed.

It was cold. Not all too unpleasant. Nonetheless, he could have at least brought some gloves with him, his fingers were turning rigid.

He exhaled. He was sure his breath was a visible steam of white, judging by the subtle wave of warmth hitting his face amid all the cool wind.

Garreth opened his eyes slowly, at the same time reigning in his broom to fly at a slower pace. The first thing he saw was a vast expanse of murky, navy water under equally as vast a sky, considerably cloudier than what it had been when he had departed.

He flinched when he felt something brush against the tips of his locks, quickly gathering that his hair had been hovering inches above the highest canopies of a small assortment of deciduous trees – had it caught and matted into the branches, that would have been one very abrupt and painful stop he would have made there.

There’s one for my diary, he managed a quick half-joke with himself.

Hastily, Garreth pulled himself up into the correct riding position, further decelerating, and lowering altitude toward an elevated clearance. He dismounted on top of a stone slab reminiscent of a picnic table of sorts.

“Best be careful,” he noted to himself as he inhaled purposefully deeper and slower, to adjust his breath post flying. He had no idea where he had ended up.

The landscape behind him, opposite the coastline he had initially seen, was mostly that of thin woodlands, plowable fields and gentle hillsides; man-made stone structures resembling castles could be observed further in the distance. An intense scent of saltwater lingered in his nostrils almost immediately after he had dismounted.

Somewhere close to the sea, he concluded dumbly after a second, properly refocused on the present at the expense of Hogwarts life and that other, painful topic of human companionship or whatever, as he made his first step off the stone table, and into the picturesque nature about.

The immediate environment was abound with bushes of Lacewing Flies and bundles of Leaping Toadstool Caps, a wild Dark Mongrel lurking among the trees here and there. (The first one had surprised him, but he was ready for the others with properly erected Protegos and subsequent Stunners.)

Eventually, rather than go further inland, Garreth descended down a narrow, swirling path toward the beach. A decision he soon found himself almost regretting, when he stopped to consider how much colder it had been to be exposed to the open, merciless coastline wind at the tail of October.

But fortunately, fate favours the brave. Either them, or ones of equal lack of common sense and presence of luck. And Garreth certainly got lucky, as among the many leeches to be juiced and shells to be collected and ground into fine powders later, he had stumbled on a washed up carcass of an incredibly evasive sea creature – the hippocampus.

One in relatively good condition too.

As sorry as he was for the beast in the moment, even taking some time to pay it its due respects and thank the gods for the unexpectedly bountiful autumnal harvest, Garreth soon enough busied himself casting Diffindo to collect on some of the hippocampus skin, flesh, and other useable parts, hurriedly storing them in conjured vials, which he deposited in his robes, the pockets of which he had had a friend magically extend before. (All illegal things Auntie Matilda had warned him were strictly forbidden outside of Hogwarts, but what she did not know could hardly hurt her, he was sure.)

In his elated busywork, Garreth had completely forgotten both the cold, and all his troubles. He had likewise forgotten to mind his surroundings, right up until the moment someone shouted his name, breaking his focus.

He lifted his gaze off the hippocampus carcass just in time to notice an enormous dugbog sprinting right at him, its muscley tongue dangling out of its boulder-sized maw, red eyes aglow with part killing instinct, and part sadistic joy upon the prospect of a shortly incoming feast consisting of both himself and the mountain of meat behind him.

He was given no time to react. He had given himself no such time.

In the next moment, the dugbog was promptly hit with a purplish white burst of magic from somewhere to Garreth’s left, the force of which sent the foul creature flying into the sea off the coast. Following the remaining gleam of the fired spell with his eyes, Garreth was immediately holding his breath anew, as he perceived the figure of the person who had saved him, and who had also shouted his name before that.

Fiendfyre and coal.

“You are mad, Garreth Weasley!” she bellowed as she approached in a sprint. “What on earth do you think you are doing?!”

He had no words to respond with. His thoughts were a mess in an instant. Emotions, so bloody many of them, were stuck in his throat, threatening to spill over. He was frozen, he was boiling, he wanted to ascend, he wanted to fall into a hole, all at once.

Did his fate favour him, or did it absolutely loathe him, he was all but sure anymore. He wished for her to have left him to die, and did not, all the same.

“Why are you all the way out here, in Feldcroft?!” his night without stars demanded to know, exasperated with something Garreth wanted to, but dared not define as worry in her features.

Here had been Feldcroft, after all, as she had just informed him. The home of the one and only Sebastian Sallow, he happened to know.

And the two of them both, at the same time, had not been at breakfast that morning. The realisation seemed to sear itself into his nerves, burning white.

“What’s it to you?” Frayed, weak words came out of Garreth’s mouth, bitter and foreign on his tongue.

She blinked at him, unsure how to proceed in the moment. “We’re friends?!” was the reply, spoken in shaken confidence, the end of the sentence curving into a question.

“Yes, well,” Garreth scoffed, licking his lips nervously and looking away from her, (anywhere but at her really,) “not so close friends I’m sure.”

“Garreth!” she chided offendedly. “Listen to yourself!”

“If you’re going to lecture me like everyone else, you are very welcome to just leave me alone.” His tone was more frigid than the late October wind blowing between them. And yet, his heart thundered, ablaze, breaking apart with every thrum. “I am grateful to you for your intervention just now, but you truly need not concern yourself with me anymore. Especially go out of your way to do so.”

“Garreth…!” she sputtered, significantly quieter this time. From the corner of his eye, his gaze being in the moment coined to the sand in which both of their boots had been half-buried, Garreth could perceive her repeatedly clench and release her fist at her hip.

He liked her – he admitted to himself then, for the first time in over a year he had known her. He liked her very much. But she was Sallow’s. To her, he, Garreth, had been nothing more than a friend. At best.

“Have I done something?” he heard her whisper. The quiver in her tone lured his eyes upwards. He stopped their advance somewhere at her collarbones, hidden underneath a thick tartan scarf. A desire to gut himself open as painfully as possible overcame him when a portion of his mind, somewhere deeper, took notice of the lovely ways in which her current, tightly fitting travel attire pronounced the lush hourglass shape of her figure.

He had no right. None at all.

“If I’ve done something to earn your scorn, I’ll do anything…” Her breathing turned somewhat erratic; she was making long breaks, and inhaling shallowly. She fidgeted with her hands, wand dancing between her palms, and shifted her weight several times over the span of a couple short moments.

She was panicking. But Garreth found himself only further irritated by it – if she had already secured the handsome and charismatic Sallow and the intelligent and influential Gaunt, what worth could his own friendship possibly hold for her?

Because he was a Weasley? One of her many prosperous connections? What was the advantage to him over any of the other Wesleys, like his aunt, or his successful older brothers? Was he but a contingency in case her pureblood Slytherin friends ever decided to discard her?

He knew he was horrible to even think of it. He was being terrible to her, unfair to her friends, whom he did not even know, outside of being casual acquaintances. But his mind was screaming at him to find something to hate about her, anything, no matter how small, to help him not crumble into dust right then and there and never recover himself.

A shadow of a movement behind her sent all alarms in Garreth instantaneously going off. He was so stupid – utterly idiotic, to throw a tantrum and pout in a place crawling with danger, without first making sure they– she, was safe!

Before he even knew what he was doing, he grabbed her wrist and pulled hard, throwing her, and himself protectively over her, opposite the water’s edge.

The dugbog’s thick tongue darted right above their heads as they landed in the sand. A second of hesitation longer and their heads would have been lopped clean off, without a doubt rolling away on the shore by now. The ground rumbled as the beast started running, its cover blown and discarded.

With a laborious cry of frustration and pent up anger, Garreth’s companion threw him off, straightening herself in an instant, and proceeding to blast the creature with a burst of pure white magic, the likes of which Garreth had never seen before.

“I’m trying…” she grunted, hitting the creature with another pearl-coloured nonverbal spell, which this time took form of lightning, “...to have…” she levitated a stone from nearby without so much as a word of incantation, and seemingly almost no effort, “...a bloody conversation!!”

The stone launched the dugbog backward a good two metres or so, flipping it over to its back, and splintering into pebbles in the process.

Power and vigour.

Garreth swallowed thickly, unsure if whatever it was that was twittering in his nerves was terror, or adoration his heart had secretly been whispering about in his subconscious for a year. He raised his own wand with an unsteady hand, but determined to aid the girl all of his affection was focused on in her fight, as he immediately took note of her now laboured breathing.

Without question or hesitation, he steadied her with one arm, leaning her against his side just as she lost balance. A new pair of glowing red eyes emerged from the water right behind the first squirming giant.

Garreth aimed a Depulso at the flipped dugbog, launching it back into the sea and into the other one.

“More are coming, and you’re exhausted,” he said, internally hating himself for not having the presence of mind to register it before. “We’re retreating. Accio broom!”

Grabbing the speeding mount mid-air with his wand hand, he quickly climbed on, scooping his companion up and positioning her securely in front of himself, then promptly taking off, leaving a dusty vortex of sand and gust in his wake – and just as good, as it was sure to disrupt the aim of the blasted creatures below.

For the most part, his companion was steady before him, but something still seemed off about her; maybe the way her muscles were unnaturally tensing under his arms, or the way she refused to look at him, choosing to instead lock her gaze on the expanse of land directly below them as they darted over the woodlands.

The headwind carried over the scent of her hair as its many cheerful, soft little locks beat at Garreth’s cheeks – fast-fading rose oil, and plenty of fresh pine, with hints of other flowery fragrances.

Almost not sweet at all, and certainly nothing close to sherbet.

Garreth swallowed thickly, gaining altitude and slowing down. He quietly set course for Hogwarts, preparing mentally for a tedious flight, as almost the entirety of it would be upwind, not to mention the extra weight of another person.

“Land in Feldcroft, please,” his companion requested then, quiet but firm.

Any protests that infested his mind, Garreth chose to keep to himself. His mouth was pressed in a firm, silenced line as his eyes busied with searching for the outskirts of a village he knew Feldcroft to be.

It was not too difficult to find. He grounded the broom in the vicinity of the village well, more carefully than he normally would have had he been alone, thereby ignoring the fact that his companion had probably been a better flyer than himself in favour of basic, gentlemanly courtesy.

And it was a good thing that he did, as apparently, she was presently not feeling like herself. The moment her feet touched the soft soil below, she stumbled to the side. Unprepared, Garreth barely managed to catch her.

“You’re unwell,” he pointed out. His voice chose not to mask any of the worry that had clutched his heart at the sight, quite against his will.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she breathed, waving her hand dismissively. “I just need some rest.”

“Let’s get you a bed. Where are you staying? With Sallow?” Garreth’s eyebrows knitted inadvertently as he posed the question. He banished the mental image.

“Nowhere,” she answered, breathing deeper now, and clutching at Garreth’s hand that had somehow found its way to hers, to offer support. “I’m looking for him, actually.”

“He’s not home?” Garreth queried, somewhat surprised, but otherwise not all too interested.

“Nor Hogwarts,” she responded. “Ominis says he hasn’t been to the dorm at all since last night, or any other of the usual places. Sent me a rather panicked Patronus in the middle of the night, asking if Sebastian had been with me.”

Garreth banished another mental image.

She grunted then, like one does when they are in pain, and he held her tighter, lowering her to sit on the ground, her back to the stone well. He squatted close to her, still holding her hand.

“Have you been out all night searching for him?” he asked, disturbed to no small extent. Even if they had been lovers, that would have surely been uncalled for. Sallow also was a skilled enough duelist not to need her protection or anything. He was no child.

(Unlike himself, clearly, his brain supplied unhelpfully.)

She chuckled through a frown. “He has a penchant for trouble if left alone, that petulant child,” she joked.

At least, Garreth sincerely hoped it had been a joke.

His next question was posed carefully, laced with all the frost of the sudden realisation that washed over him when he finally noticed, being now as close as he was to her, that some of her attire had been a deeper shade of red than the rest. Particularly around the left of her abdomen, and on her sleeves.

“Are you injured?”

She hesitated. “A little.” She attempted an expression which only vaguely resembled a reassuring smile. “Ran out of Wiggenweld in the troll den. Got hit by something nasty by a Dark wizard on my way to the shore. But I handled him.” She sighed deeply. “Episkey won’t mend it.”

“You’ve been running around with an open wound?!” Garreth almost shouted, growing instantly perplexed, and starting to panic. “For how long?”

She pouted, not responding immediately. It was all the answer he had needed. Too long.

At that moment, a voice of a middle-aged woman sounded from the side of them: “Excuse me young man, but is everything alright? I saw you two land…”

“No, it’s not, thank you,” Garreth turned to the woman instantly, purposefully ignoring the look of ‘Do not involve others, I’ll handle it’ his companion was giving him. “Madam, do you have any Wiggenweld and Blood Replenishing Potions? Or somewhere I could brew them right now?”

“Oh dear,” the woman straightened with evident urgency, the likes of which seemed to infect her immediately through whatever the expression in Garreth’s eyes was. “Come,” she said. “You can use a spare bed in my home. I’ll lend you a cauldron.” She produced a wand from her sleeve, and levitated the girl carefully, with a practised hand. (The latter squeaked shortly in protest at being so rudely lifted without consent.)

“We mustn’t lose any time with injuries,” the older witch urged as Garreth got up to follow her. “Was it goblins? Or a beast?”

“She tells me it was a Dark wizard,” Garreth answered honestly, pacing behind the woman as they all too soon reached a small run-down hut which appeared to be her home. Feldcroft sure was small. “Are you a mediwitch, Madam?”

She tilted her head to the side to grace him with an unexpectedly pleasant smile over her shoulder as she opened the door. “Unfortunately no, but I’ve handled my fair share of wounds and lacerations. This village lost too many people last year, mostly to skirmishes with Ranrok's loyalists.”

The girl was swiftly lowered to a bed immediately accessible upon entering. The bed itself was tucked under a staircase and facing the hearth. Their host conjured additional blankets and a dressing screen next to the bed, then stoked the sleepy embers with a quick Incendio, cast without even looking directly at the fireplace.

“We do have some Wiggenweld on hand, but you'll have to brew the Blood Replenishing Potion, young man,” the woman told Garreth in a calm and collected tone.

“Yes, of course,” he returned, somewhat breathless.

“Any ingredients you need, just tell me, and myself and the neighbours will make sure to acquire some for you,” the older witch assured.

She then turned to Garreth's companion, who was in the midst of propping herself up, and off the bed. “Now miss, please cooperate and lie back down this instant. The sooner you are comfortable, the sooner you will also be properly healed.”

Her features were soft, but her voice was strict. Garreth was quite familiar with the sight; he had often seen both his aunt and mother take up this particular bearing to their posture, especially when they would scold him and his brothers in situations similar to this one, for being careless with their safety or health.

The other student grumbled, but obeyed, sitting back down.

Feeling relieved and comfortable in his decision to trust the older witch, Garreth turned to the fire to start on his own task. He grabbed a silver cauldron off the stack in the corner, and filled it with clean water via the Aguamenti spell. “Madam, may I ask where you keep your ingredients?” he began, turning around to find that both women had disappeared on the other side of the dressing screen.

In the next moment, he heard the sound of ripping fabric, his favourite voice grunting, and the unfamiliar one sucking in air through teeth and tutting.

Concentrate, Garreth, he scolded himself. “Madam?”

“Sorry dear,” he heard a muffled reply from the woman. “They’re in the cabinet just behind the kitchen door.”

The kitchen was barely a few steps away, and the door was barely a door – more so just the frame. Garreth laboured to stay focused as he tried not to listen to the older witch try several healing charms on whatever wounds the girl he fancied had sustained. The more names of spells he heard, the more worried he grew, and all the more rushed his own work became.

Luckily, the older woman did not need to contact any of her neighbours for ingredients for the Blood Replenishing Potion. Garreth found them all in the cabinet, and carried them over all at once to have at hand by the hearth. He added one by one carefully into the boiling pot, stirring clockwise and counterclockwise as needed, and mending the fire to exactly the right temperatures for each step.

After a while, he stripped his coat and robe.

“Breathe deeply,” the woman was whispering, as his favourite’s breaths grew shallow.

Garreth removed his tie, and undid a couple buttons. He stirred the cauldron.

“Do not sleep. You must stay awake.” A sound of gentle slaps, skin on skin. “Stay awake.”

Grunts turned into soft wails. “It’s hot…” she complained.

“I know darling. I know,” the motherly voice was cooing. “Just a little more, and you can sleep. I promise.”

You are mad, Garreth Weasley. He repeated the words absently, rhythmically, as he minded the potion.

It was done, finally. All it needed now was cool. Garreth pulled the hearth hook away from the fire with his wand, and let the contents steam. He wished he could cool the potion artificially, but any such attempt would ruin it immediately.

He stood for a prolonged second, mustering up the courage.

“How is she,” he asked aloud, unmoving.

For a brief while there was only silence, broken by soft wails and short and uneven breaths. Then he heard the older witch exhale heavily through her nose.

“It seems to be some sort of curse,” she said quietly. “It prevents the wounds from closing. Spellwork is ineffective, and Wiggenweld only mends the skin for a minute or so, after which the lacerations reopen. It doesn't heal.” Another sigh. “I wish we could transfer her to St. Mungo’s, but she’s too weak for either Apparition or Floo already…”

And then, a quiet: “Garreth…” In her voice.

“Garreth…” louder, and a painful sob.

Before he next blinked, his hands folded the dressing screen, and he was by her bedside.

Gods, the state of her. The overwhelming coppery smell of fresh blood, probably until that point concealed by some obscure barrier the older witch had set up within the confines of the dressing screen and the cramped space below the staircase. All the red – on the sheets, on the conjured bandages, on the floor. Empty Wiggenweld Potion vials everywhere, by the dozen. Her dark hair, usually always light and springy, now soaked and stuck to her skin and the pillow. And her skin… Frozen deep grey, almost. It was riddled with incisions new and old. Faded scars that looked like lightning, stretching from her neck to below her stomach and under the sheets that hid her lower body, down and across her entire torso.

What on earth had she even been through, all her life? Just how much about her did he have no idea about?

Her biggest wound was exactly where he had expected, in her left abdomen, tightly wrapped in fresh white cloth, which was already soaking in new scarlets.

Garreth stifled a sob, a scream, and the urge to vomit, all at once. Instead, he just took in a few forced, ragged breaths from behind his hand pressed over his mouth, and quietly knelt next to her pillow.

“I’m here,” he was whispering. “I’m here. You’ll be okay. You will.” He swallowed thickly. “I’ll make sure.”

His trembling hands wrapped around one of hers. She meekly squeezed back.

“Garreth…” she panted, barely audible. Tears were streaming down the corners of her eyes, in straight lines that passed through her hairline toward her ears. “Sor…ry… I’m–”

“Shhh…” Garreth soothed her. “Tell me later. You can tell me everything later.” He raised one hand, and carefully brushed some of her locks off her forehead. “I have some things to tell you too, later. So, you have to get through this, alright?”

She whimpered, as if to protest, but did not attempt to speak anymore.

The older witch approached Garreth from behind, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Let’s feed her some of your potion, dear,” she said, as composedly as ever, and then approached the bedridden girl to force the contents of the vial she had carried in her hand down the latter’s throat.

Garreth watched her from his place on the floor by the bed, temporarily rendered unable to do anything. The older witch did not ask him to either, as she went back to the cauldron to refill the vial she had no doubt conjured, and fed the girl another dose.

“I’m not sure if a double dose is the safest,” she said after a moment, “but you would agree we have little choice right now.” She sighed. “Who knows how much blood she’d lost before you arrived here.”

For hours, there were no major changes, for better or worse. The girl drifted into a state of unawareness, then finally, to sleep.

Garreth and the older witch administered the Blood Replenishing Potion every hour – she showed him how to do it to an unconscious person. They monitored her breathing constantly, and changed her bandages whenever they would become unable to contain the blood, vanishing the old ones, and conjuring new ones out of thin air. Bottles and vials too.

Garreth brewed constantly. Two medium silver cauldrons of Blood Replenishment, and dozens of smaller ones of Wiggenweld. They quickly ran out of ingredients, so the witch eventually went out to speak to neighbours for help.

Garreth would not be replaced at the hearth. Not even after several other village women arrived to further divide the labour. He needed to make sure the potions were perfect, every brew. Others tended to the patient’s wounds, gave her medicine and water, cleaned, and made food and tea for everyone else. No one witch lingered for long, but they kept coming back, in almost perfectly organised shifts.

The women gossiped a lot. It seemed to keep them sane through both their overwhelming work and monotonous routine, as well as through the horrors the hamlet had suffered in recent years. One of them recognised Garreth’s companion as The Hero of Hogwarts. From these women, he then learned of the goblin attacks, which had almost stopped completely within the past year since Ranrok’s defeat, although they still happened on occasion as isolated incidents. He was likewise told of the feats his classmates had performed for the local community, and much of Sebastian and Anne Sallow’s childhood.

By the evening, the little hut had cleared of visitors again. The initial host had also gone out, and Garreth was left alone with the patient, brewing another Blood Replenishing Potion.

Lost in his thoughts as he processed all of the new information he had heard, he reached for the hearth hook with his bare hand; jumping back the next moment, he toppled over the chair which the village witches had prepared for him to sit in as he managed the potions.

Grunting, he straightened himself on the floor; and instantly, his ears caught the sound of a soft crack beneath the weight of his right forearm. He sat up onto his shins and turned around, noticing a couple vials of his earlier harvest shattered on the floorboards – they must've spilled from the pockets of his robe, which had been thrown over the now overturned chair. Seashell fragments mixed with what seemed to be a sample of hippocampus inner flesh, probably trapezius muscle. Of course, all now covered in blood of his own. Ruined.

Garreth sighed, his nerves too tired for him to get upset. He lifted his arm to inspect the damage to his own flesh. Fully prepared to mend the skin with Episkey and not waste any vitally needed potions on himself, he produced a handkerchief from the back pocket of his trousers, using it to remove the debris from his forearm and get a better view of the injury.

Unfinished draft

#hogwarts legacy #garreth weasley #my writing #fanfiction #draft #weasley wednesday

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