#i feel physically sick staying in the school building for too long professor allowed me to take the last of this semester's classes

[snifflyjoonie]

I Think You’re My Soulmate Pt. 2

a/n: Hi guys!! So I know I said I’d be posted parts of this in-between fics, but the Jimin fic is taking me longer than I thought (is anyone surprised at this point lol) so I thought I’d drop part two of this in the meantime. 

I’m so excited you guys liked the intro to this!! Your comments were all so sweet and made me smile. I hope you all enjoy this next part as well! Who do you think our protagonist runs into first? lol

Enjoy!~

Namjoon arrived at his new University the next morning feeling extremely worse for wear. His cold had come on fast, leaving him in a bit of a daze and sporting a runny nose. He wanted nothing more than to still be asleep in bed, but with today being his first day back, he knew that wasn’t an option. He had rolled out of bed with a groaning protest, showered, and searched his closet for something warm and comfortable; ultimately deciding on an oversized black sweatshirt, a black face mask in an attempt to keep his cold to himself, and a black beanie. Not his usual choice for a back to school outfit, but since he didn’t really have anyone to impress and because he felt so ill, he didn’t really care. 

  The man hovered outside of his new school in the crisp winter air, a to-go coffee gripped tightly in one hand. He took a moment to stare up at the large building with slight uncertainty. It was still fairly early, 8am — He wouldn’t have his first class until 9am — but being a new student, and one who had missed the first semester, he had plenty of paperwork to fill out. He blew out a breath, feeling his face mask warm with the exhale before heading to the doors. It was now or never.

The first steps into the main entrance hall made his stomach flip. There were a lot more people present than he had anticipated. For a brief second it reminded him of his first day at school overseas. The same bubbling uncertainty filled his gut and he felt his palms go sweaty. At least this time he’d be able to communicate in his native language. This thought alone helped calm his nerves as he leaned against a nearby wall to finish his coffee.

Namjoon scanned the area as he pulled his mask to his chin, watching students walk by. He caught eyes briefly with a brown-haired young man, probably no older than 20, as he hugged his parents goodbye. Namjoon felt himself smile a little, the fact that the boy’s parents were dropping him off was sweet, and it probably meant it was this boy’s first day, too. He silently hoped the mystery young man would have an easy first day.

Namjoon took the last sip of his coffee before tossing the paper cup into a nearby trash can. The warm drink had done wonders to vanquish the chill he’d caught from outside but the steam had also started to make his nose run. He sniffed hard and scrubbed at his nose for a moment before clicking on his phone to check the time, seeing 8:26am flash back at him. With a sigh, he peeled himself off of the wall he had been slouched against and began to drag himself to student services across the hall. 

A small line had started to form behind the help desk and Namjoon filed in obediently. The first thing he needed would be his student ID and a map of the University. He had a vague idea of where his first class was located, he had come to orientation a week prior, but a little confirmation never hurt anyone. The line moved rather quickly and before long Namjoon reached the front. He answered the necessary questions politely and signed where they requested before he was swiftly moved to the photo area. He sat in front of the photographer and gave a tight lipped smile before again being hurried along to card pick-up. The whole process surprisingly took all of ten minutes.

With his newly owned student ID card in hand Namjoon made his way out of the entrance hall, pausing only a moment as he felt his breath begin to hitch before the feeling quickly faded. He shook his head in annoyance and sniffed before heading in the direction of his first class, unaware that the young man from earlier had been hitching along with him in perfect harmony.

*

Finding his physics lecture hall had been easy, thanks to orientation and his new map. He arrived a bit early, expecting to find the hall empty. Instead however when he pushed open the heavy wooden doors he was slightly shocked to find the classroom half-full. The hall itself was bigger than he anticipated; the seats went at least eight rows back on an upward slope and curved in a semi-circle around the front. He hesitated for just a moment before deciding on a spot at the very back of the classroom towards the left-hand side, closest to the door. The closer to the door he stayed the better chance he had of avoiding the after-class traffic. He had picked up on this quickly from his three years in school abroad.

He made his way up to the desk slowly, the muddy snow that still clung beneath his shoes sloshed along as he stepped. The class began to fill up quickly as he got himself situated and before long there wasn’t a single free seat available, much to Namjoon’s surprise. He didn’t expect to see this many students signed up for physics. He allowed himself a moment to look around and take in the crowd before the professor strolled in.

The man looked on the younger side, probably mid thirties, and wore a well tailored tweed suit. He took a brief moment to introduce himself and the class before jumping immediately into the lesson plan. A few students quietly stood up and made their way to the door, clearly having mistaken this class for another, but other than those few students the class remained full. 

The professor had a very confident demeanor, easily commanding the attention of the whole room. Not a single soul seemed to be whispering, and Namjoon assumed they would’ve been able to hear a pin drop amongst the sounds of scribbling pencils and the clacking of keyboards.

He sat quietly taking notes, doing his best to stay awake and pay attention, his eyelids getting heavier with each blink. His coffee from earlier, albeit good, wasn’t doing the best job of waking him up like he had hoped. He was typically a very attentive student, but with the lack of sleep he’d gotten the night prior and the new pounding headache starting to form behind his eyes, focusing just didn’t seem possible.

Namjoon blew out a breath in frustration and sniffled slightly, his nose wrinkling up under his face mask as he felt it began to itch. When he was younger, an itchy nose would always make his stomach flip. The anticipation was almost overwhelming. He used to scan the room for girls he hoped would join along with him, and he’d do almost anything he could to turn an itchy nose into a full blown sneezing fit. He remembered crossing his fingers and toes for good luck, even going as far as trying to keep his eyes open so he could see his soulmate right when it happened. But now that he was older sneezing didn’t phase him, and without thinking twice, he pitched forward in his seat with a small squeak of a sneeze he tried to pinch off as to not interrupt the professor.

Right at the same moment, a booming sneeze echoed through the lecture hall from across the room. Namjoon immediately felt all colour leave his face. He snapped his head up, now fully awake, and followed the gaze of the other students who were equally as surprised as he was, but not for the same reason. It seemed no one else had noticed that Namjoon had sneezed himself simply due to the sheer volume of the other’s. 

Typically when others noticed two people sneezing at the same time, the room would fall silent and the quiet, excited murmurs would begin. Namjoon used to wish for that moment; a moment where every one of his peers could see him and his soulmate lock eyes with each other for the first time. But now, it was the exact opposite of what he wanted as his horrified gaze fell upon the culprit: a tan-skinned, black-haired young man.

The young man chuckled sheepishly and bowed his head as the professor jokingly thanked him for waking up any students that may have dozed off. There was a short moment of shared laughter amongst the students as Namjoon felt his cheeks flush red. He had just sneezed in perfect harmony with someone for the first time in his life, and it had been a man. Surely this must have just been a coincidence — Some kind of mistake. He shook his head slightly and squinted hard, trying to see if the boy was maybe someone he knew. An old friend from grade school? A café worker he’d crossed paths with? But alas, nothing. Namjoon had never seen him before in his life.

Clearly this was a mistake, he thought. It had to be. He felt his heart skip a beat but quickly tried to shake the feeling. He’d been dreaming of this moment for years, but this was all wrong. There was absolutely no way.

“When the universe gives you a sign, you listen.”

His father’s words echoed in his brain. 

Suddenly, Namjoon felt as if he might throw up. He wanted to be as far away from this man as possible, a deep resentment-like feeling starting to form inside of him. Who was this man, anyway? Why would he take this moment, a moment he had yearned for since he was small, and mock him with it? This was all just a sick joke. 

Namjoon hastily began to pack his things, shoving them as fast as he could into his bookbag. He just needed to get out of there. He stood up fast and began to make his way down the row of desks. He could feel the eyes of his peers follow him down the steps, but he didn’t care. The professor’s voice faltered slightly as Namjoon approached the front of the room, but he just muttered something about being in the wrong class and swiftly turned towards the door. He paused in the doorway for only a moment as a sneeze snuck up on him before he quickly exited, trying with all his might to ignore the thunderous sneeze that echoed behind him as the heavy doors swung closed. 

“It’s just the way it works, my son.”

[authorwiththedragontattoo]

The Snitch Seeker - Chapter 1

When he had first heard about Hogwarts eighth year, the thought of attending didn’t even cross Draco’s mind. He had run away from the dark lord, barely evaded Azkaban and spent the last four months living in a house that was being monitored 24/7 by the ministry. They knew every move they made, if Draco decided to put an extra sugar in his coffee one morning, the Ministry knew about it.

So, when Narcissa Malfoy came into his room one day holding a letter from Minerva McGonagall requesting his return to Hogwarts in September, he was shocked to say the least. ----- or yet another hogwarts eighth year in which draco redeems himself fic

Rating: Teen and up audiences

Warnings: Mild references to violence and death 

The Hogwarts Express rumbled and groaned, announcing its presence to any living thing within a 10 mile radius as it hurtled down the rickety track towards its destination; Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

It was even louder on the inside. First years shrieked down the train corridors, thrilled about finally beginning their magical career, about making friends with the fellow witches and wizards beginning that year, and particularly about the snack trolley filled with sugary delights.

The older years also retained a certain unusual buzz about them, striking up lively conversations with their peers and moving in and out of the different carriages, greeting friends and hugging people they hadn’t seen in months. Call it a ‘post-war euphoria’; call it thousands of students finally breathing after being suffocated for months. Finally being teenagers after being forced to become adults too quickly.

Draco Malfoy, on the other hand; could still feel the vice around his throat.

Draco, like many others, was returning for what was coined as ‘Hogwarts Eighth Year’. It was an unprecedented decision to give the graduating class of 1998 a fair opportunity to complete their N.E.W.T.s and redo their final year to ensure they could receive their full education before going out into the Wizarding world on their own.

When he had first heard about this eighth year, the thought of attending didn’t even cross Draco’s mind. He had run away from the dark lord, barely evaded Azkaban and spent the last four months living in a house that was being monitored 24/7 by the ministry. They knew every move they made, if Draco decided to put an extra sugar in his coffee one morning, the Ministry knew about it.

Of course, none of the Malfoy’s had been happy about it, but they weren’t about to argue when their freedom was already hanging by a thread; so Draco quickly had to accept that every time he took a shit someone in the Ministry was making a note of it.

So, when Narcissa Malfoy came into his room one day holding a letter from Minerva McGonagall requesting his return to Hogwarts in September, he was shocked to say the least.

“They want me to go back?”

Draco stared at the letter in disbelief, scrutinising Professor McGonagall’s signature to make sure it wasn’t some foul trick.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Darling?” Narcissa looked more delighted than Draco had seen her in months. After the war, she wasn’t quite herself. As if she were just a whisper of her old self; an echo. It broke Draco’s heart to see her eyes absent of the defiant and powerful glint they once held.

“This is your chance for a fresh start, Draco.”

Draco knew the guilt that consumed his mother for allowing Draco to end up in such circumstances. There wasn’t an awful lot she could have done; they both knew that, but her son had to fight for not only his life but for her own at 16 and she would never be able to escape the fact that she; as a mother, allowed that to happen to her son.

For the first month after the defeat of Voldemort, Draco would wake in the night to his mattress dipping as Narcissa climbed under the duvet and pulled him close. Neither mentioned spoke of it in the day, they didn’t need to. Draco was just happy to have his mother there to calm him when he woke from a nightmare struggling to breathe, bile climbing up his throat.

“And the Ministry is allowing this?” Draco questioned, handing the letter back to Narcissa.

“Well, they check our mail before we’re allowed to read it; surely if they weren’t going to allow it they wouldn’t have sent it to us.”

Humming in return, Draco looked to the floor. It was no secret to Draco the backlash the ministry had received for pardoning the Malfoy family; many people believed all three of them should be locked up in Azkaban just like the rest of the Death Eaters - have it their way and he would probably be dead already.

The thought of returning to Hogwarts, knowing how many students wouldn’t give a second thought to killing him where he stood caused nausea to stir in his stomach and made his head hurt.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, mother? I don’t think I would even make it to the train without someone hexing me on the platform.”

Narcissa’s furrowed brow softened, and she moved to sit next to Draco on the plush sofa that sat in front of his bedroom window. They both turned to the view of their lavish gardens that sprawled with trees, flowers, plants and creatures to create a botanical wonderland. It was a view Draco had gotten rather bored of. He hadn’t left the manor in two months and he spent most of his time in front of this window. Sometimes he tried to read a book or a paper, but mostly he sat there to think. For hours he let his thoughts consume him, leaving him numb.

“Draco, dear” Narcissa began, after a few moments of silence, “You can’t stay in the manor forever.”

Draco turned to look at her, and she did the same. She must have been able to read the dread on Draco’s face as she offered him a warm smile, and stretched an arm around his shoulders. He never could hide anything from her.

“No matter how much you want to.”

Deep down Draco knew he couldn’t pass up this opportunity. There had been talk that Lucius might be stripped of his fortune; having used the manor to harbour Death Eaters and bribe members of the Ministry with his wealth. Without the fortune to fall back on, and no N.E.W.Ts, Draco had no safety net for his future; and this concerned Narcissa greatly. To be honest, Draco never thought he would even make it this far so he never really had a plan for his future in the first place.

But now he was 18 and he was alive, and he needed a plan - even if just for his mother’s sake.

“Okay, I’ll go back to Hogwarts.”

Draco’s head hurt. He had gotten to the platform early so that he could have a room to himself so thankfully he could partially shut out the noise of the train; but his mind was reeling and he couldn’t stop it.

The pit of anxiety that sat in his stomach had been there for days, weighing him down, stopping him from keeping food down. He had skipped supper the night before and breakfast that morning, which in hindsight probably did nothing to help the sick feeling that worsened with every twist of the train.

Three years ago, Draco would have been waltzing up and down the corridors of this train, pushing, shoving and yelling his way through the crowds to make sure people knew he was there - tailed by his lesser Slytherin friends.

Not this year.

This year he had the curtains drawn and the door locked, he pressed himself into the corner of the room and shut his eyes; dreading the moment he would have to step off this train and face the place he watched so many people be slaughtered - because of him.

-

It was just as hard as he expected it to be. Harder, in fact.

There wasn’t a trace of the war on the mighty castle, stood just as proud as Draco always remembered it. Where he last saw piles of rubble, Draco now saw a towering clocktower. The same clocktower he had stood on many times; observing the 100 foot drop to the concrete ground.

Where the bodies of his peers… children lay; there was now the vibrant green grass he remembered from being 11 and first stepping foot onto the grounds.

Draco could feel the bile rising in his throat once again as he observed the picture perfect school; devoid of any memory of what had happened there only four months ago.

The crowd of students moved towards the building; the setting sun reminding them of how eager they were to reach the Great Hall; and even more eager for the feast that follows soon after their arrival. Draco couldn’t quite bring himself to follow them just yet.

Instead he stood at the gate; looking up at the building but making no move to go inside. Many agitated students pushed past him, throwing grunts of displeasure his way. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t will his legs to follow. Everytime he told himself he would move, his mind was plagued with images of the Death Eaters roaming the castle; cursing anyone who crossed their path. He saw images of his parents on the other side of the courtyard; and looking Voldemort in the eye, beckoning him over. He saw Goyle; burning to death in the fire he created.

He wasn’t the only one, he noticed. A few other students; mainly eighth years stopped to brace themselves before eventually making their way inside, but they all left pretty quickly, leaving Draco to stand there by himself as the sun moved lower in the sky.

“What the hell are you doing here, Malfoy?”

Draco jumped at the sound of a familiar voice behind him. He felt himself go rigid, and his breath caught in his throat. Quickly thinking better of the look of surprise on his face, Draco plastered a glare to his features, before turning round.

“Weasley.”

Ron Weasley looked different. Not physically; physically he was still a pale ginger with limbs too long for his body. It was in the eyes, and the way he held himself. Before, he seemed so unsure of himself, like he never quite knew his own worth, like he never wanted to take up more space than he needed to.

Draco couldn’t ignore his own contribution to that.

But now, he stood proud. His shoulders pushed back and head held high, as if he was daring anyone to just try and tear him down. And his eyes, always kind; now held a light that shone with pride as he stared Draco down. He had a daunting feeling that the power dynamics between the two weren’t quite what they used to be.

After all, Ron Weasley is the boy who helped win the war; Draco is the ex-Death Eater who ran away.

He quickly glanced around, knowing if Ronald was there, there was usually two other people not far behind. But he saw no sign of them.

“They’ve gone inside already.” Ron stated, as if reading Draco’s mind. “Why are you here, Malfoy?” He repeated.

“What’s it to you?” He snapped back, suddenly feeling rather vulnerable, like an exposed nerve.

Ronald scoffed in response, and took a step closer; “Can’t face what you did?”, he nodded towards the castle.

Draco kept his face stoic but his heart dropped at the realisation that Weasley was reading him like an open book. He didn’t know when the boy became so wise but he didn’t like it one bit.

“I don’t see you eager to waltz through the doors either.” He lamely retorted.

“Yeah well I lost my brother in there, didn’t I? Friends, people I cared about.”

Draco felt himself become defensive as Ronald’s words caused the images of the war to flash through his mind, “What, you think I didn’t lose people too? You think I didn’t suffer that day as well?”

Ronald paused for a moment, looking at Draco like he was just dirt under his shoe; “I guess that’s the difference between me and you, Malfoy. Despite everything I stayed, and I fought. You ran away.”

“You don’t know a thing about me, Weasley. So, fuck off.” Draco’s voice raised as anger and shame burned in his chest.

Ronald laughed somewhat morbidly, as if Draco had reacted exactly how he expected him to. And Draco had to admit, he probably did. Suddenly, Ronald’s arm stretched out towards Draco, offering him something in his hand. Draco couldn’t help the way he flinched slightly at the movement. On a hesitant closer inspection, Draco realised what was in his hand was sandwiches wrapped in cling film.

Confusion clouded Draco’s features as he looked blankly at the offering. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting Ron to offer him; perhaps a hex or a punch in the nose, but it definitely wasn’t food.

Ronald rolled his eyes as he saw Draco make no move to accept his offering, and instead placed them on the ground by his feet, “In case it takes you a while to grow a pair and face what you did.”

Ronald then walked away, leaving Draco dumbfounded.

[clean-bands-dirty-stories]

Why? ~ F.W. (Part 10)

A/n: This has been written for ao long, I'm sorry I'm only posting it now. Upside: It's edited! First time for everything I guess lol

Word Count: 5400+

MASTERLIST

I was looking at the castle when they came out. Still a bird, perched high in a tree, I turned when I heard the ruckus. I flew closer, making sure they couldn't see me as I evesdropped. "So you've had a kid?" Black was asking Lupin.

"What? No." Remus almost laughed. "She's Harry's age, Sirius." He gave Black a meaningful look that wasn't too well received. Black moved away, to a little place that allowed him to see Hogwarts through the trees. It bothered me that he and I had done the same thing to seek comfort- look at the school. I wondered if he still saw a home when he looked at the building, or if he just saw good memories and a life he'd lost. Harry joined him after a second and they began to talk. I flew to Ron, turning human again. "You finally figured out that spell." Lupin smiled as I approached and I moved next to him, nodding. I looked at Black. Lupin sighed as he stepped up next to me. "You should tell him."

"How can I?" I whispered. Hermione and Ron were both giving me the same looks Lupin was. "He can't know I'm HIS daughter. He doesn't even know I was born. There's enough-"

"You're my daughter?" I turned around sharply to see Black a lot closer than he had been before. He had a tender look on his face. He smiled a little. "Guess I should have known. You remind me so much of myself, in a lot of ways."

"People keep saying that." My voice came out wet, my words cracked and broken. "They said it a lot. I'm just as mad. Just as capable of killing people. Just as much a mistake. Not even wanted by a murdering psycho."

Black looked stunned by the harshness of my words. In fact, everyone did. "Have people been saying things about you again?" Hermione asked gently.

I shut down. She reached for me and I recoiled, finally snapping. "As if you care." She jerked away, her eyebrows pulling together. I stepped away as I looked at all of them. "Look," I directed at Black. "You've got a nice little thing going here. You're going to be proven innocent and you can live out your dreams of being reunited with at least one... friend." I paused when I said it, eyes flashing to Lupin. When I looked back at Black, there was a different shock in his eyes. He hadn't been so prepared for me to know so much about his past. "You have Harry, who needs a real father figure as much as you need a family. You can satiate each other." I turned away.

"But he's your dad." Harry's words hit me. "You HAVE your dad, and you're turning away from him? He's good, after all this time, and you can have a relationship with him. I wish I had that opportunity." His words were bitter and mean. He was pushing me like every other person at this damn school bad been since the beginning of the year.

I turned on him sharply, my eyes blazing. "But your dad's dead, I get it!" He flared. I felt guilt instantly but I didn't dare show it. I was on a full rage and my pride was too demanding for me to step down so all I did was step forward, drawing to my full height only to still not reach him completely. "Honestly Harry, you're lucky. I know you don't see it now, but I'd rather have a dad who died a hero than a dad who've I've been trained to hate my entire life because he's supposed to be a deranged, dangerous maniac. I've been forcing myself not to indulge even a second of hope for thirteen years because if I even STARTED that, I would hurt myself. So PLEASE forgive me for not being able to handle him suddenly being good and here and ready to be my dad as if I haven't spent my whole life thinking he'd hate me even if he DID know I was alive. That he- he'd- kill me or-" I couldn't breathe. I was clutching my chest while everyone gawked at me in total horror. "It's e- enough that people are terrible about it! People from my OWN house! It's bad enough that I'm a bloody Slytherin! Put on top of it that I'm HIS daughter and the single worse Slytherin and friend and child ever and why would he want me even- even-" I stumbled, gasping for air desperately.

A hand rested on my shoulder. "Whoa," a voice that sounded weirdly far away and echoey said to me. "Just breathe, okay? I know it doesn't feel like you can't right now, but just close your eyes. Think of five things you can hear. Name them for me."

I closed my eyes, trying to stabilize myself. "Uh-" Five things I could hear? "The- the wind," I rasped out, still breathless. I tried to focus on the leaves brushing together and the bushes moving as they were blown. "I can hear someone breathing." It was the person close by, who had stepped up to help me. "S-someone shuffling their feet. The leaves are moving." Suddenly whoever was shuffling went still. "My- my breathing." I squeezed my eyes tightly, reaching up so my fingers curled into my shirt, gripping the material desperately.

When I didn't respond for a few seconds and my breathing got worse, the person's hand lowered to my back. "Name one more thing for me."

I couldn't really hear anything else. "Uh..." I stalled. I swallowed. "My... voice?"

"Good job," the person eased. "Now tell me four things you can feel."

Dear heaven, this was a lot of thinking. "My heart in my chest," I began without really thinking about it, my other hand moving over my chest as well, but this time to flatten out over my other hand, about where my heart would be. "The cold air. The wind, again." I winced.

"That's great. It's okay to name similar things, or the same thing. Tell me one more thing you can feel?"

Finally my thoughts aligned again. "Your hand on my back."

There was a small, almost-laugh sound of amusement. "Brilliant. Now, three things you can smell? This can be anything as well."

This time when I paused, it was to think. "I don't know if it counts, but the crisp air were it's really cold and kind of burns the inside of your nose if you inhale too much?"

Another huff of amusement, softer this time. More like a hum. "Yes, that works."

"Dirt," I added. "And... dog." The word almost didn't make it out of my mouth as I suddenly felt very close to the voice that had felt forever away just a moment ago. Too close.

"Okay," the person began again, this time slowly and more hesitant. The hand fell away from me and I found myself sad about it. "Now, two things you can see. Open your eyes for this one. Just look straight ahead and name the first three things that come into view."

I was hesitant to open my eyes, afraid seeing the man that set me off so much so close by, helping me and caring and being compassionate and attentive. Something I'd so long craved; something I had forbid myself even imagining. Now it was real.

As I allowed myself to go down that thought path though, my chest constricted and my breathing began to pitch and become more shallow so I pushed away my feelings and over thinking habits for a second and opened my eyes slowly, strictly keeping my eyes ahead so as not to see him. "The- the silhouette of the trees against the night sky." He hummed, encouraging me to continue. "The..." Suddenly, the clouds in the sky moved and I was basked in moonlight. Just as it was happening a horrible thought hit me and I spun around, pushing past my father to see Lupin. "The moon," I choked out, sick to my stomach for a whole different reason. Right as the moonlight filled the night and we were all light up, Lupin met my eyes and Hermione gasped. From behind me, Sirius Black shoved passed me and ran to the teacher, pressing against him and trying to calm him down.

I shouldn't have had a choice. The thought shouldn't have occurred to me. But, it had, and now I had to choose. Did I run and leave all my friends behind with a werewolf and a would-be murder? Or did I stay and... and do what? As I was debating something that shouldn't have even been a question, Snape ran out of the tree, facing the trio with anger. But then Hermione made him aware of the scene with Lupin and Black and for once he did a good thing, flinging his arms out to hide the children and make himself a bigger target.

Lupin flung Black off of him into bushes as he reached full transformation, and I watched as Hermione pushed past teacher and friends to try and approach the wolf. "Hermione-" Ron squeaked, reaching out to her even though he couldn't quite reach her.

Hermione hushed him. "Professor?" She tried tentatively. She took another step toward him.

Lupin looked at her for a long time. Even though it was only a few seconds, that hit of time seemed to stretch for eternity. But, as long as it felt, it was over too soon as Lupin broke the eye contact to reach up to his full height, an angry howl ripping from him. As Hermione stumbled back I was suddenly shaken into reality, jumping into action as I jumped into the air, turning back into a crow and flying around Lupin's head maybe a split second before Black jumped on Lupin as a dog, trying to tackle him as I distracted him. We worked together to get him away from the others, and it seemed to work for a minute, getting him far away from the others so Snape could begin guiding them away, to safety. But then Lupin smacked Black and the dog went flying again. Unable to physically fight off Lupin like Black had, I shot into the air and out of hurting range... but not before I got a vicious swing that had claws catching my leg. There was a snap before I got far enough away that he couldn't reach me anymore. Mercifully, there was another howl of a wolf that called Lupin before he could attack the others.

Landing on the ground, I turned human again just in time to see Harry breeze past me toward where Black had gone down, screaming his name. Snape caught my arm as I deliberated on following with my messed up leg that was clearly broken. "Back to the school. Now." He looked so angry, glaring at me, that I finally gave in. My already limited bravery ran out as I turned back into a bird, shooting off toward the school and away from the teacher, leaving Hermione and Ron alone with him. I'd have to feel bad about it later.

So much had happened in so little time. I ended up in the courtyard, landing awkwardly on the ground as I turned back into a human, hand on my leg as I leaned against a wall. My leg was bloody and twisted terribly. I reached down to touch it, wondering if snapping it right would make it worse or better. My hands came away red. I cursed under my breath, closing my eyes and thinking. Would I go to Madame Pompfrey? That would be logical, but then she wouldn't let me leave the rest of the night and surely she'd ask a lot of questions. I couldn't deal with her hovering and worrying and mothering right now. I needed air. I needed to breathe and calm down.

Deciding against taking care of my body in favoreof taking care of my emotions, I sat down on a bench. I leaned back on a wall, face buried in my hands as I tried to catch my breath and right my mind and heart. My leg went numb and I began to cry.

I cried for the life I should have had, before I was landed in an orphanage and denied happiness with not my terrible mother who was selfish and nasty, but two fathers who would have loved me with all their hearts. Remus and Sirius should have gotten together and raised me same as James and Lily never should have died, being able to raise Harry in a warm, loving home that was bright and happy and complete. Harry and I should have grown up practically siblings, coming to Hogwarts with arms around each other and his forehead lacking a scar and my last name lacking a tarnish. I wondered a moment if I would have gone by Lupin or Black.

Liv Lupin. I liked the sound of that. So much better than Ylva Black. A name ruined and dirtied. A name that was too old and proper and witchy. Why couldn't I have had a normal name? A common name? Why couldn't I have been Liv my whole life, knowing love and home and companionship and being comfortable with emotion and intimacy? Maybe then Fred wouldn't be stuck with a girl who could barely function. Who might not ever be able to love. A girl who can't even call him her boyfriend despite being crazy about him because the idea of officializing a relationship was too much like daring fate to hurt her more and she just couldn't take the fear it caused her.

I must have been there an awful long time because, as I would learn later, a LOT would happen while I sat there. I only saw another person again when Ron would run up, his eyes wide and face drained of color as he took in my emotionally tattered appearance and my jacked up leg. "Liv." I waved weakly. He cleared his throat, gathering himself. "I was sent to look for you and take you to Madame Pompfrey." He rubbed the back of his neck, almost... guilty. "I know you'd probably prefer Harry or Fred, or even Hermione, but..."

In that moment, something clicked for me. My eyes tested up and I began crying. At some point I'd stopped - I never cried for long - but now it came again, even harder than before, or had ever. I didn't care that Ron could see me. I stood despite my hurt leg and limped to him. He had to catch me as I threw my arms around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder. "Thank you, Ron," I whispered into his shirt. "Thank you for coming. I'm so glad it was you and that you came for me. I'm sorry I ran off, and that I've avoided you guys for a while now and that I haven't been around or a good... a good g- girlfriend to your brother." I released a breath as I said it. Ron let me talk. "I'm sorry I haven't been easy to get along with and that I've been stubborn and closed off. I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you guys. I haven't really formed a friendship with you and I've left Harry on his own. I'm sorry."

Ron sighed, hugging me back, speaking only when he was sure I was done. "You know, my mum told me once that I was an idiot. She said it was okay though because I was still young." He laughed softly and I found the sound contagious, chuckling wetly as well. "I think we're all young. Too young for the way people talk to you and look at Harry and treat Hermione and ignore me. For the way this stupid school works with its stupid rules and expectations." He shrugged. "Don't be so hard on yourself. I'm not a great friend either. Merlin knows where we'd be without Hermione, or Harry. I think that's what's great about friendship. You all work together to overcome your weaknesses, and you forgive each other's mess ups because they forgive yours. Kind of cool, honestly."

I leaned away, smiling at Ron. "You know, you're kind of smart."

We both laughed as Ron rolled his eyes. "I am VERY smart, thank you very much. We just have Hermione around who's inhumanly smart, ruining the normal people so everyone else looks dumb." I nodded and we both calmed, the somber mood creeping in again. "Do you want to-?" He began.

Before he could finish though, there was a shout of exhilaration mixed with a scream and the sound of hooves on stone. Ron and I turned to face the sound to see Black, Hermione, and Harry of all people on Buckbeak's back. Buckbeak who was supposed to be dead. With Ron's help we both made it over as Black and Harry talked in low voices.

As the older man turned toward the hyprogriff, his eyes landed on me. We both froze, looking at each other. He swallowed. I thought we were both turned into stone suddenly, until he broke the spell by walking over to me. He saw my leg and frowned. "You're hurt."

I shrugged. "After you got tossed, Lupin sort of..." I shrugged again. "Caught my leg." A pained expression crossed Black's face. "I'm not sure if I should visit him tomorrow. Convince him not to hate himself for it. The sight of me might make him feel worse."

"You should visit him," Black told me. "It would be better if he sees that you forgive him. Otherwise he'll keep himself up wondering if you hate him, which is so much worse for him than the hate he'll feel for himself. You two were... close?"

Without thinking, I answered, "Yeah. He was the closest I got to a father." Then my eyes widened and I winced.

Black placed a hand on my shoulder and my eyes met his. His smile was weak but present. Ron looked between us before excusing himself. Black directed me back to the bench, mostly carrying me before we sat next to each other, talking quietly. "Liv, I feel like..." He ran a hand through his hair and I tried to hold back a smile. I did that too. "I mean, you know I didn't know, right?" He was searching for something to say. "There's only one woman I can think of, and... is she treating you well?"

I sighed and he deflated. "She sent me off to an orphanage. I was there quite a stretch before the whole "Sirius Black murders 13" debacle. For a year, the Headmistress actually liked me. Then, she found out I was a witch and you were my dad and... pretty downhill from there." He rose an eyebrow. "She doesn't like witches." From the look on my face, he got the message.

"Liv," he whispered weakly.

I cut him off, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug. He paused in surprise before slowly hugging back. "I'm sorry I hated you so much. I- I know I did it to protect myself and you can't imagine how much you being innocent came as a shock, but... I'm glad you're not dead. And I'm glad that in the end we found each other. Even with everything else, knowing that someone out there actually cares about me. It's nice."

He sighed into my hair. "You know, I don't hate you." I locked up and he rubbed my back soothingly. "You're a Slytherin?" I nodded. He paused and then sighed. "Well, you're a good kid. If you can make Remus like you, then I can approve." He leaned back. "I would like to get to know you, though. Do you think any amount of effort could make up for thirteen years of absence?"

I managed a real, wide smile. "I think we could make something work."

Harry came up then. "Sorry to interrupt." His face was drenched in guilt. I wiped the remaining wetness off my face and smiled up at him. "Sirius, you have to go. So do we. If we're not back in the Hospital Wing soon, someone's going to tie us with Sirius' escape, and maybe catch him again. Also, your leg..."

"Wait, escape?" I asked, my heart plummeting into my stomach.

Sirius sighed heavily, his smile gone again. "I'm afraid Peter got away. We've no proof I'm innocent. Hermione and Harry barely broke me out."

My eyes wide, I looked at Harry with a bewildered expression. "We have a lot to explain. On the way. You think you can run on that leg?"

I paled and his shoulder sagged with anxiety. "You can carry me as a bird maybe? And then I can turn back before we go in?" He nodded, peeking up again. We all stood.

Sirius caught my arm, stopping me. He placed a kiss on my forehead. "I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, but you, Liv, are one of the few things I'm proud to say are mine. I'm proud you're my daughter."

I was stunned. "I-" He began to move away so I raised my voice. "I'm proud you're my dad." He paused, on top of Buckbeak now. "You're a good man. I hope that we work it out one day." He nodded to me, smiling, and in his expression I saw a promise. One that put me at ease. He took off, flying off into the night on Buckbeak's back. There wasn't time to watch him go so I forced myself to turn away and turn into a crow yet again, limping pathetically as pain rocketed all over my tiny body. Harry picked me up, apologies following out of him without even a single split second's pause as I crowed and squeaked in pain as he ran, jostling me everywhere. We got to the Hospital Wing, allowing me to turn back and lean on Ron as Dumbeldore himself came out of the hospital.

"We did it Professor," Harry crooned proudly.

Dumbeldore seemed unfazed. "Did what?" We watched him as he left down the hall. As he went down the stair, he turned back and winked. It was so brief I almost thought I'd imagined it. But the grin on Harry's face affirmed it.

We busted inside the hospital just as Harry and Hermione shimmered and disappeared from in the middle of the room. I turned on the trio as they sat me on a bed. "Okay," I grunted, wincing. "What the bloody hell just happened?"

Hermione jumped in to explain. "Harry and Sirius got attacked by dementors after they left the rest of us. Harry got taken here, Sirius got locked up. Pettigrew disappeared in the chaos. Ron and I were shocked to see you weren't here. We told Madame Pompfrey that you ran off - we didn't let her know about the bird thing, promise - and that you were really hurt, so she sent Ron off to find you. I was going to go too, but then Dumbeldore came in to intercept me before I could go after Ron. I've been using this all year-" she pulled a golden thing out from underneath her shirt. "It's a time turner. It's how I've been getting to all my classes. Harry and I went back in time to save Buckbeak and then Sirius, bringing the two together so they could both escape their unfair fates. That's when we ran into you and Ron in the courtyard."

Ron and I didn't have time to process that before the Hospital Wing doors busted open yet again to reveal Snape, followed by a bunch of important looking people. I jumped and a pain shot through my leg and I screamed. I was suddenly dizzy, the whole world swaying and then suddenly tilting as I fell, the world blurring and darkening until it went completely black.

-

When I woke up again, I thought I was alone at first. It was sunset outside, barely gray with light, and there seemed to be no one around. But then I looked down and saw a head full of red hair and a face buried in the blanket around my legs and middle. The person, fast asleep, was holding my hand on top of the blanket. I smiled before I pulled my hand away from his, reaching up to move hair from his face. The smile that adorned my face now was warmer and softer than the others I'd expressed in the last stretch of while. It was a smile only Fred could pull out of me.

At my touch, the very boy started just a bit, shifting and stretching as he slowly opened his eyes. He looked at me, his smile raising to match my own as he sat up. "You're awake."

"You're here," I followed up.

He shrugged and I could tell he was trying to give me room. "I didn't want you to wake up alone." He nodded toward the piles of books at the end of my bed. "Hermione insisted that if I was going to be here, I might as well do my school work as I waited for you to wake up." He chuckled. "I actually ended up doing some." He gave me a look like 'scandalous' and I giggled. After a second, he cleared his throat and then stood. "I guess I'll leave you be now."

Before he could go I caught his wrist. He looked back at me as I tugged him, pulling him off balance just enough that he had to lean forward onto the bed, allowing me to reach up and grab around the back of his neck, pulling his lips to mine. He didn't hesitate before kissing back. When we did eventually part, he stayed close. My fingers brushed over his cheek affectionately. "I'm glad you're here. And I don't just mean in the Hospital Wing, Fred. I mean..." I motioned toward my chest. "In my life. In my heart." I winced. "That was cheesy."

He grinned. "I love cheesy."

"You would." I rolled my eyes and we both laughed. Taking a breath, I tried to get serious. No jokes or dodging this. Not for Fred. Not for me. Not for us. Not now. "I'm sorry I've been so dodgy. I've barely been around and when I'm around, I'm being terrible to you." I sighed heavily, forcing a weight off my chest as I demanded the truth to out itself. "I care more deeply for you than I have for anyone. I am more keen on keeping you in my life than I've ever imagined I could be. You're so important to me, Fred. I don't know about forever or how far life is going to let us go with this, but I want to go as far as we can. I want to hear you talk about your great girlfriend and cuddle with me whenever you want. Kiss me whenever you want. I want to be able to snap at girls who talk about how cute you are and I want people to know you're mine. Likewise, I want to be yours." I took a breath. "If- if you still want that?"

He laughed, but this sound was more halting and full of emotion. Less of a sound of amusement and more one of relief. He pulled me in for another kiss, this one deeper and more passionate. Heated. He kissed me hard and my body reacted as my fingers slipped into his hair. I tried to pull him closer and he sat on the bed, accommodating to not break the kiss while also allowing as much of our bodies to touch as possible. When we parted, both of us were breathing heavily and our lips were already swelling and turning red. We were both beaming, our grins painfully wide and blindingly bright. "I would love nothing more." He placed his hand against he side of my neck, his pointer and middle finger resting on my jaw as his thumb traced over my lips. I relaxed into his touch, finally feeling ease and comfort like I never had before. I was buzzing and warm. This was familiar and good and safe. It gave me a feeling I'd never felt before. The one that I almost reached during Christmas at the Diggory's.

The feeling of home.

I decided I was the luckiest girl alive. I had the Diggory's and Lupin and my dad and Harry and an amazing school like Hogwarts, and I had the Weasleys and Hermione. Most especially, I had Fred- a boy who I was crazy about who felt the same way about me. A boy who was mine the same way I was his.

After everything I had been through, what more could I ask for?

-

Lupin ended up leaving. I got a last talk in with him to let him know I forgave him and that I would be fine and told him not to beat himself up. I told him about Sirius getting away and we not-really-joked that with the connection between us- we were family now. He promised to write over the Summer and told me if I needed a place to stay over break so I wouldn't have to go back to the orphanage. I was welcome at his home- as long as I was okay with dealing with full moon nights away from the house or as a bird.

Long story short, I was okay with that. I could tell he liked the idea of not being alone during the full moon.

Outside of my immediate friends, Cedric was the first to see me after I got out of the hospital.  It was during weekend study group, where Luna shot to her feet and nearly knocked me over in a hug. She seemed to be out of it most of the time, but seeing her friend hurt seemed to have a deep impact on her. Likewise, Cedric was next to hug me. His was more crushing than toppling- I wasn't sure which one I preferred.

After study session where Fred and I eased out that we were official, I pulled Cedric aside to talk to him. "I wanted to say, I'm so grateful for you and your dad taking me in..." I hesitated. He nodded for me to continue, sensing I had something really important to tell him. "I'm not a Diggory. I'm not," I insisted as he opened his mouth to argue. "And maybe one day I could be... except I think we both know I really won't. You've been an only child your whole life and your dad is used to having one child. I see how he struggles to love me as much as he does you. And that's okay, because I'm not his child. If I'm going to have someone adopt me, I want it to be because I am theirs. Not out of duty or obligation or pity because my situation is crap." I grabbed his hands. "Do you understand what I mean?"

He smiled sadly. "I do." He paused. "Do you want me to tell my dad, or do you want to tell him?"

"I was planning on telling him. I have some other places to be this Summer to be with everyone I want to be with, but I was hoping I could still visit?"

Cedric grinned. "Of course you can. My home may not yours, but you're always welcomed. Even if he's not your dad, he is very fond of you." He smirked. "And you'll always be my little sister, I'll hear nothing against it." He ruffled my hair and I giggled.

"I can be okay with that."

The rest of the school year carried on until it ended and Amos picked up Cedric and me, where I explained the situation as I had to Cedric. Like his son, Amos was very understanding and still welcoming. I'd start the Summer with them and then leave for Lupin's after a bit. I was planning on visiting the Weasley's at some point, at least once, to see everyone as Fred's official girlfriend. It was going to be fantastic.

Until the perfection was ruined by the Headmistress of the orphanage showed up at the train station on the muggle side, scooped me up, and dragged me back to the incarnation of Hell on Earth.

I thought I knew how bad it was going to be. But then it only got so, SO much worse from there.

-

Tag List: @reddie-steddie-go

[missjosie27]

Year 2 Part 3: A Bit of Transfiguration

Hey, guys! Sorry for the wait on the update. This is the next part of the story I am currently writing and I hope you all continue to enjoy!

The next day proved difficult to focus on Transfiguration with Ben in the Hospital Wing. Though David, Penny, and Tonks had been sworn to secrecy, somehow rumor still spread around the school of his absence. Not to mention he wasn’t sure if he was going to avoid punishment for being caught after hours, however, he was pretty sure Merula hadn’t let the general populace that he had beat her again in a duel.

Despite these distractions, he still managed to be only one of two students (the other was a red haired Ravenclaw girl he didn’t know) to properly transfigure his porcupine into a pincushion, much to the delight of Professor McGonagall.

“Very good, Mr. Grant,” she praised after asking him to perform the spell for her. “You are quite the natural in this subject. Five points to Gryffindor.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“Indeed, you are one of the more gifted students at Transfiguration I’ve seen in some time,” she added. “If you are interested, we may explore more advanced lessons.”

“I’ll consider it for sure.”

McGonagall gave a curt nod. “Alright, that’s enough for today. Class dismissed.”

The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws began shuffling out and for a moment David thought he had successfully avoided the subject of last night. Alas, he was wrong.

“Mr. Grant, do stay. There is a matter we need to discuss.”

Rowan gave him an encouraging look to try and make him feel better, but though his head of house was fairer than Snape he knew she would not let him off easy. Running a hand through his dark brown hair, he decided it was best to face the music.

He walked over to her desk while the others vacated the room and soon he was staring face to face into her stern, gray eyes.

“You wanted to see me Professor?”

“Yes, Grant. It is in regard to last night, your friend Mr. Ben Copper.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is he okay?”

“At the moment, he is being well cared for by Madam Pomfrey and is no immediate danger. However, his memory is quite spotty, and he does not remember how or when he became trapped in this cursed ice. Rest assured, he is fine and will make a full recovery.”

That at least, was a huge relief off of his mind.

“Thank you, Professor.”

“Indeed, I thought it best you ought to know personally given how close you two are.”

“Soooo….I’m not being punished?”

David hadn’t wanted to push his luck but a part of him couldn’t help popping the question. Better safe than sorry.

“Your heroism in discovering Mr. Copper in the nick of time has warranted a pass for now. But I warn you, I will not overlook future violations of curfew. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied eagerly, hardly daring to believe his good fortune.

“Very good,” and suddenly her eyes were full of concern and sympathy. “Though he is fairing well, I daresay he’ll need his friends after such an ordeal. Do see to it to pay him a visit.”

“I will, professor.”

“Good. Let us speak no more of this.”

Rowan was waiting for him outside when he finally exited the classroom.

“What did she say?” he asked with anticipation.

“She let me off the hook for now. Definitely her way of saying ‘thank you’ for finding Ben when we did.”

“I’m sure glad you found him,” Rowan agreed. “I think it explains why he was acting so oddly. You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“He must have been searching for the vaults himself,” he theorized as they traveled up the stairs towards the Great Hall. “You know that ice only affects you if you touch it. Somehow, he broke through that door again.”

“You don’t know that,” David tried to ease his best friend. “He’s not exactly in a good state right now. Let’s just see how he’s doing before jumping to any conclusions.”

“Alright. It’s just…after that note from ‘R’ or whoever…it’s freaky that someone or something could be watching us…”

“I know. But for now, let’s just pay him a visit before History of Magic. Give him some company.”

Rowan nodded and they climbed another flight of stairs before entering the main ward of the Hospital Wing. It was quite spacious and very tidy, with windows to allow those unfortunate enough to find themselves sick or injured. The ceilings were high and each bed was surrounded by a curtain to allow for privacy if desired. Madam Pomfrey ran a tight ship and was usually not keen on people distracting or distressing her patients, however, she was also quite kind and was usually accommodating within limits.

Today, only two other students were in her care so being able to see their friend was not an otherworldly request.

“Hello, Madam Pomfrey,” David greeted as she approached them. “How’s Ben? Is alright?”

“I believe so,” she said, causing both boys to inwardly sigh in relief. “I’ve certainly seen worse in my time here at Hogwarts, but his memory is rather erratic.”

“May we see him?”

“You may although I must insist you not stay long. He’s still in a minor state of delirium and I don’t want him to get too excited.”

“We’re just here to check in on him. Don’t worry, Madam Pomfrey.”

“Very well, he’ll be waiting for you. Third bed on the right.”

Privately, David could only wonder ‘delirium’ meant in Ben’s current condition. Did he go crazy? Perhaps confounded? That was always a possibility. Of course, at this point, almost anything was.

“Hey, mate,” he said as casually as he could upon reaching his bed, making minor observations along the way. Judging by his physical appearance, there was nothing out of the ordinary. The blue in his face was completely gone and he was certainly no longer shivering. However, Madam Pomfrey had not been lying when she stated he was in a nervous state of mind.

“Hey, Dave, Rowan.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Better but not great. Madam Pomfrey says that a few more pepperup potions should be enough to get rid of the cold, but I’m still sore.”

Though he claimed to be okay, his face told a different story. In truth the second year Gryffindor looked quite shaken.

“Anything we can do to cheer you up?” Rowan asked.

“Just seeing a friendly face is enough. Madam Pomfrey has been really helpful but she’s also kind of strict.”

“I would know,” David nodded. “She almost made me miss the feast last year after the werewolf debacle.”

“Not going to lie, kind of glad I missed that.”

David laughed but he and Rowan both knew that getting to the bottom of the ordeal was equally important.

“Ben, we have to ask, what happened?”

Placing his hand on his head in frustration, he let out a confused groan.

“I feel like I’m losing it.”

“You mean you have no idea what you’ve been doing the past couple days, or how you became stuck in the cursed ice?”

“None, at all. I can’t remember a thing,” came the sad reply. “Madam Pomfrey says she thinks it has something to with the ice but there’s no way to know for sure.”

David and Rowan looked at each other, the latter nodding at the former, who pulled out the letter they found on his person at the time of his discovery.

“This was a note we picked up off the floor after we found you. Do you recognize it?”

He proceeded to read aloud the message from ‘R’ but again it drew a blank.

“I’m sorry, guys, but I don’t know how that got into my pocket or who ‘R’ is.”

“You must remember something,” Rowan pressed him. “Try and think. We need to know who this person is.”

Again, Ben shook his head.

“It’s too difficult right now. All I can really recall is preparing to get on the train and then it’s completely blank after that…almost like I was floating aimlessly or something…cursed vaults…ice everywhere….”

It was then that David knew they weren’t going to get much else out of him as Ben lay back down on the bed, still muttering to himself quietly. Evidently, Madam Pomfrey thought so as well because not a second later they were being escorted out of the Hospital Wing.

“He needs his rest, dears. When he’s ready I’ll be sure to let Professor McGonagall know so she may inform you all. Good day.”

As the doors slammed shut, David began to muse to himself as they headed down for lunch.

“He seems fine enough,” he said to Rowan, who began pulling out several books from his satchel. “But if he can’t remember anything, how are we supposed to know who’s behind this or what’s going on with the vaults?”

“We don’t know enough about ‘R’ to get any closer to finding who they are,” Rowan said, flipping through pages. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t still investigate ourselves. Remember the message we found last year about the hidden staircase? I have a feeling that might be our next lead.”

“The ice knight stands guard past the vanished stairs,” David echoed the deciphered message from the previous year.

“Exactly. Probably guarded by more than a few vanishing and concealment spells.”

“So how do we get in?”

“Easy,” Rowan said, plopping down on the table and serving himself a sandwich with chips. “I’m willing to bet that hidden staircase is in the same corridor as where the ice originates. We find the vault, break the curse, and gather more information. But first, I suggest not going there for the time being.”

“Agreed.”

“At least, not until we learn more complicated magic. The Revealing spell for one thing.”

David began munching relentlessly (he always had an appetite for food despite his wiry build).

“We don’t learn that in Transfiguration until fifth year.”

“I know, that’s why we need to learn it.”

He chuckled.

“I suppose you’ve read the entire curriculum already, Rowan?”

“Close, I’ve already looked into our N.E.W.T. level coursework actually. This doesn’t quite fall under that category but as you said, it’s advanced magic for someone our age.”

“Well, lucky for both of us, I’m quite good at Transfiguration,” David said through a mouth full of chips. “And a certain someone just offered me advanced lessons.”

He swallowed and gave a large belch, which caused a passerby Jae to laugh, and a few of the girls to give disgusted looks their way.

Rowan laughed, as he showed the deciphered message to him once more in his book.

“I think you’re onto something there, Dave. Get a basic understanding of vanishing and revealing spells, and we can check out that corridor once more.”

“Agreed. I think it’s time I pay our head of house another visit.”

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next day, following Herbology, David stopped by the Transfiguration room, where Professor McGonagall had just finished teaching one of her classes.

“Professor? I hope this isn’t a bad time,” he said peeking through the doorway.

“Mr. Grant. No, not at all. I was just finishing up teaching the fifth year Gryffindors. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Stepping inside the classroom, David got straight to the point, not wanting to waste anyone’s time.

“I thought about your offer for advanced lessons and I’ve decided to accept.”

Waving her wand, McGonagall sent a handful of her papers back into her desk before addressing him.

“I am certainly glad to hear it. It may take some time to find a consistent schedule, but I have some free time this Thursday after dinner if you are interested.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“We can start off with some spells and motions normally reserved for third years and go from there. Does that sound agreeable?”

David was afraid she might say that. While under normal circumstances, he would have been more than happy to leave the planning of the lessons up to her, he had to insist upon learning something far more specific and at the same time not tipping his sharp head of house to his real intentions.

“Actually, professor, I was wondering if we might start off with something more advanced. Specifically, revealing and vanishing spells?”

As predicted, McGonagall’s eyebrows furrowed at the request.

“Those two particular techniques are not taught until O.W.L. year, Mr. Grant. They are also quite difficult to master for those much older than you. I am not certain that is the best place to start.”

“I understand. But for me, those are the ones I’m really focused on.”

“And why should a second year be so heavily interested in those specific areas of Transfiguration?”

He knew it was coming. David was well aware Minerva McGonagall was no fool and would not hesitate to glean the truth from him if necessary. His next answer had to be extra careful.

“I want to challenge myself, Professor,” he said with a straight face. “You said yourself I’m gifted at this. Let me test my abilities under your supervision.”

After a few seconds deliberation in which David could feel a trickle of sweat go down his back, McGonagall relented.

“Very well. We will not immediately jump into the spells you have mentioned but I do promise that eventually we will reach that point and devote significant time to their mastery.”

That was all he wanted to hear.

“Thank you, Professor.”

“You are welcome. I shall see you this Thursday at seven pm.”

Walking out of the classroom, a renewed sense of purpose filled David Grant. The vault would have to wait awhile yet, but this was a start. With any luck, he could break this curse and discover more clues about his brother and ‘R’ in little time.

[snarky-badger]

Venom Movie Prompt: Reader is a Life Foundation scientist part-time that had been taking care of the Venom Symbiote and talked to it to pass the time and to monitor it's behavior. Unaware of what Carlton Drake had really been using them for she hears about a suspected break-in at work. Carlton is furious and wants his Symbiote back, starts to realize the secrets and is not sure if she wishes to stay there. She then gets a visitor that takes care of her like she did for them. -threshprince

Oh my, this turned out longer than I planned. I am incapable of writing short things, apparently. Haha.

I hope this is good enough  @threshprince It kinda got away from me at the end and turned into a bit of fluff, haha.

It had been your dream job.

You’d never thought that a paper you’d submitted to your University professor would have gotten you a part time job, never mind one at the Life Foundation itself!

But by some chance, some shining star, you’d gotten an interview with Carlton Drake himself. You’d been nervous, sure, but not so nervous that you’d made a fool of yourself, not if the part-time job you’d landed in his genetics department was any clue.

Learning that there was bonafide proof of alien life had rocked your world. Learning that you’d be one of the few allowed near such life while running genetics tests on it? Mind-blowing.

The first time you’d seen the alien ‘symbiote’ in it’s glass canister, you’d been surprised. You’d honestly been expecting something more out of the movie genre that you’d been low-key obsessed with during your teenage years. Alien goo, that wasn’t something that you had been prepared for. Well… was the Blob alien? You couldn’t remember.

Either way, it was weird.

Still, as you and your fellow geneticists studied it, you quickly came to a realization that it had some sentience. It definitely flinched away from the probes that were used to take some of it’s physical makeup, banged against the canister in an attempt to get loose, and the high pitched ‘scream’ that left it when one of the scientists quelled it’s escape attempts with the electric shocks had almost made you cry.

It raised some serious problems with you. You’d even mentioned it to the other scientists, but they had waved you off, laughing at you. You were too young, apparently, seeing things that weren’t there.

Your moral compass was starting to go off kilter.

You were unable to really do anything - you needed the job. You had so much debt to pay off from putting yourself through school, and the Life Foundation payed handsomely.

What you could do, however, you did.

A familiar screech reached your ears one day, and you looked up from your computer, scowling at ‘Adam’ a fellow geneticist with a mean streak a continent wide. He loved nothing more than to shock that poor alien for the slightest reason. Another thing that made you think the symbiote was sentient - it tended to hiss at Adam and press itself as far away from the man as possible whenever the Adam went near it.

“Adam, what the hell are you doing?” It was a dangerous thing, to stick your neck out with Adam around. He was a bully, in every sense of the word. He was constantly complaining to Carlton Drake that you were on the team, trying to get you fired.

But the screaming, it sent shivers down your spine. You were certain Adam used to torture small animals when he was a kid.

When Adam didn’t answer, you snatched your pepper spray out of your purse and rose off your chair, ignoring the butterflies in your stomach as you stomped over to him. “Goddamn it, Adam, stop torturing the poor thing!”

The heavyset man eyed you darkly, and you locked your knees to keep from running at the hate in his eyes. “Oh, fuck off. It’s not like it actually hurts it.”

“It’s screaming.”

“Hah. Sounds like singing to me.”

Oh good lord he was a sick fuck. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

That hit a nerve, because he rose his thumb from the security panel that controlled the instruments used to both subdue and take samples from the alien, then turned towards you, brows drawn inward in a glower.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Well shit, you’d poked the wasps nest. “It means that I think you’re torturing the poor thing because it’s helping you get your rocks off. Probably the only way too, can’t imagine any woman with a brain going near a bully like you.”

He snarled something and took one menacing step forward, pausing when you stuck your can of pepper spray in his face. His eyes literally crossed as he stared at it.

“Touch me,” you growled. “And I will empty this entire thing into your eyes. If there’s any justice in the world, then it’ll probably fucking blind you.“

He breathed heavily, like a bull ready to charge, but took a step back. You kept the spray raised, stance ready in case he lunged or reached for you, but Adam merely glared at you a moment longer before snarling a curse.

“You just lost your fucking job, bitch. Threatening a senior employee and bringing a weapon past Security, you’ll be lucky if you’re not arrested.”

“Just fuck off before I figure out how to rip the shock mechanism out of this panel so I can electrocute you,” you snapped. Adam glared at you a moment longer, then turned and stomped back to his separate office space. “Jesus, how the hell did he pass the psychiatric screening.”

Sighing, shoulders slumped, you turned towards the canister, and the symbiote held within. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, daring to reach out to press two fingers to the glass. “I can’t– Adam’s right, I’m going to get fired. I needed this job, but if you’re as smart as I think you are, then it’s worth it. I’m sorry he keeps hurting you, and I’m sorry that you’re trapped here.”

There was a moment of silence, where the symbiote undulated in it’s prison - because it was a prison, you’d realized. It was a prisoner, and you and the others had been experimenting and cutting off pieces of it. Jesus.

You were about to pull away when it moved, pressing up against where you were touching the glass. You blinked, staring at it for a moment. It was the first, non-aggressive move it had made to date. Usually it thrashed and shrieked and tried to attack anyone that came near it.

Then again, if situations were reversed, wouldn’t you?

Figuring that it was your last day at the Lab, you decided that finishing your current DNA breakdown of the latest sample taken from the symbiote would be a waste of time.

So you pulled up a chair and kept your hand pressed against the canister, merely talking to the symbiote for the rest of your shift. Babbled about your classes as the University, and why you’d taken the job at the Life Foundation, then tangented your way to talking about little things. Your hobbies, dreams, your family. Told it about the City in case it ever got free, about the dangers and the beautiful things and the people that weren’t complete assholes.

When it was time for you to leave, you gave the symbiote one last look, then used your body to block your movements as you lifted a maintenance panel on the computer panel that controlled the shocking and dissecting instruments, feeling for the needed wires and yanking them out.

“There. No more shocks. Not until they realize it’s broken, anyway.” A sigh left you as you stared down at the imprisoned symbiote, fully convinced that it was staring back. “I’m sorry I can’t do more. I really am–”

Noise from the direction of the elevators made you frown, and you huffed when you heard Adam’s voice raving at someone, someone who turned out to be a security guard. “Looks like I’m going to be escorted out of the building too. God how I loathe that man.”

Shoulders slumping, you went to leave your lab coat on your chair, then grabbed your purse, pausing by the symbiote again before leaving the Lab. “If you see a chance to escape, no matter how small, take it. I don’t know what Carlton Drake has in store for you, but it can’t be good. If you need help–” You rushed to whisper your address as the security guard opened the glass door to the Lab.

“Ma’am? I’ve been ordered to escort your out of the building.”

“Never been happier to be fired from a job,” you spat in Adam’s direction as you stormed past the guard, flipping Adam off as you headed down the hallway. Smirked when you heard the guard tell him to back off - poor baby had a short fuse.

The next week and a half went by as boringly as possibly. You easily fell back into the rhythm of things before the Life Foundation job. Balancing school and waitressing at a bar was old hat by now, you could do it in those sleep deprived moments called ‘unconsciousness’.

It was while bringing drinks to a group of frat boys that you saw the headline - a massive explosion at the Life Foundation. Fifteen dead, more wounded. Carlton Drake was on damage control, saying that it was an accidental electrical fire that had spread to one of the labs and ignited some samples, but you knew better.

“Good for you,” you murmured under your breath. Stared at the TV screen a little too long if the look from your boss was any indication, and you quickly went back to work. This job, you didn’t want to lose. It didn’t have the questionable morality that the other one had. That, and the tips were good.

What you weren’t expecting was to find Carlton Drake waiting for you at the end of your shift. The man - dressed in a suit that probably would have set you up for rent for a year - was flanked by two muscled guards that quickly herded you towards, and into, the alleyway next to the bar.

“Where is it?!”

You blinked and played stupid. “Where’s what?”

Drake glared. “Don’t play dumb. The symbiote it’s gone! Attached itself to some guy and killed half the staff and security before vanishing into the damned City.”

You eyed the guards by his sides before huffing. “Well how the hell should I know?“

“Because you are the only one that seemed to have a rapport with the alien. I saw the security footage of you defending it from Mr. Harrison. Honestly, if you’d simply told me that he was torturing it instead of threatening him, you’d still have a job.”

“A job where I’d be dissecting a sentient creature. Pass. Hard pass. Some of us have this thing called ‘morality’.”

”Which is why the symbiote responded to you,” he pressed. When you stayed silent, he rolled his eyes and pulled out a business card. “If it comes to you, contact me. I’ll reward you handsomely. You’ll never have to work at a dump like this again. One call, and I’ll have an entire security force at your side in five minutes and a check in your hands in ten.”

You hesitated. That much money…. But the memory of the symbiote screaming in pain made you shake your head. “No thanks.”

Drake stared at you as if he couldn’t understand the words that had come out of your mouth. Finally, he glowered and shoved the business card back into his pocket. “Stupid girl. Fine, have it your way. You’ll be watched from now on. You won’t see them, but I’ll have people following you twenty-four-seven. If…. when the symbiote comes to you, and I have a firm belief that it will, I advise you not to get in the way.”

You glared at his back as he turned away, his two goons following a step behind him as he walked back to his black Cadillac, the driver holding the door open for him. The urge to run over and score the Caddy’s paint job with your keys rose, but you didn’t fancy a bullet to the head.

For the next three days, you had the firm sensation of being watched. It made your skin crawl. As Carlton Drake had said, you never spotted your tail, but you knew it was there. Hoped beyond hope that the symbiote had the sense not to come to you, because you really didn’t want it to get caught.

You wished you hadn’t told it where you lived. But hindsight was twenty-twenty.

One night, after a double shift at the bar, you were in your apartment studying, books open on the small kitchen table as you tried to put together something coherent for paper due in a week. The coffee was brewing strong - you were on your second cup, late hour be-damned.

All the windows were covered in thick curtains - new curtains that you’d bought to hide yourself from the prying eyes you knew were there. You’d even added two new security locks to the front door, and had an aluminum baseball bat nearby in case you needed to bash any asshole trying to get in. It was all you could do on a meager student’s budget.

You knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Which was why, when you heard a knock on the door, your first instinct was to snatch up that bat and get ready to bash some heads. You sidled up to the door and rose on your tiptoes to peer through the spy-hole, blinking at the guy on the other side. Tall, muscled, blue eyes, short brown hair, wearing jeans a shirt and a black leather jacket. Who the fuck was he and why was he at your door at…. You blinked when you realized it was one in the morning. Fucksakes you had classes at eight.

You rose your voice so you’d be heard through the door. “Who is it?”

“Uh, hi? Our– My name’s Eddie Brock. I, um, look I know it’s late and this is weird, but I have a…. friend who knows you.”

“Good for you. That tells me nothing at all about why you’re at my door at one in the morning.“

There was an amused tone to his voice when he spoke next. “If I were to tell you, you probably wouldn’t open the door.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, now that all my red flags are up, this is the point where I tell you to fuck off.”

Silence stretched on for a moment, before mumbling was heard on the other side. Something that actually sounded like arguing. Oh goody. You had a crazy person on the other side of your door.

Eddie spoke up again a heartbeat later. “I’m not going away until you talk to me.”

“Then enjoy sleeping in the hallway. Also, if you’re still there in the morning, I am, presently, in possession of a bat. Which I shall happily use on you if you make me late for class.”

“You got a chain on that door?”

You scowled. “Two. And a bat.”

“Then you don’t have to let me in. I just want to say my piece and then I’ll leave. Scout’s honor.”

You waffled over that for a moment. Maybe too long, because there was a curious ‘hello?’ from the other side of the door. “I’m thinking!” you called back, pushing away from the door and pacing a little.

Crazy man outside the door, assholes keeping watch, and you had a bat. Yeah, you were going to die.

Sighing, thinking perhaps, lack of sleep had made you stupid, you slid both chains into place, then unlocked the door and opened it enough to peek out. “Talk fast.”

He blinked at you. “You’re prettier than he said you were.”

“Okay then. Closing the door now.”

“Wait, wait! I’m sorry. Please don’t go. He’s been driving me nuts for days trying to get me to come here.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “And who would ‘he’ be, exactly?”

“He calls himself ‘Venom’.”

“Uh huh.”

Eddie rose a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “I’m fucking this up. Look, I’m a reporter. I was trying to expose Carlton Drake and his Life Foundation for experimenting on homeless people and– Are you alright?”

You felt like throwing up. He’d been doing what?! God, it was so much worse than just torturing aliens. It took everything you had to keep from having a mild panic attack. “Sorry, Mr. Brock. I don’t do interviews.”

“Oh, no. I’m not here for that. I got too close to the truth and he… Look, long story short, I know about the symbiotes.”

Plural. There had been more than one. Your brain latched onto that and didn’t let go. “There was more than one?!”

He frowned. “You didn’t know?”

“No! I— Wait. Why the fuck are you here then? Who the hell is your ‘friend’ and why would…. they….” Your voice trailed off at the familiar blackness that extended from his ‘jacket’ and reached out to touch your hand. You’d thought it would feel sticky or wet, but all you felt was a coolness as the symbiote curled around your fingers. “Holy shit. Holy shit! You shouldn’t be here! You can’t be here! Drake, he’s got people watching me! You have to run–”

A darkness flit across Eddie’s eyes. “They won’t be a problem for you anymore.”

You went still. That hadn’t been Eddie’s voice. 

Well, at least your hunch that the symbiote was sentient had been proven. Take that Adam.

Eddie blinked a bit, the blue returning to his eyes as he met your stunned gaze again. Even quirked a smile at you as you watched the bit of symbiote retreat from your hand and vanish into his ‘jacket’. “We promise, we won’t hurt you.”

You felt like babbling incoherently. Instead, you slid the chains off and opened the door fully, stepping back as he entered. Kept a hold on the bat, mostly because you felt too numb to let go of it as you mechanically closed the door, locking it.

He was eyeing all the open books and scattered papers on the kitchen table when you turned to look at him, and Eddie glanced up when he felt your stunned stare. “You’re not going to pass out are you?”

“Don’t get snippy, I have a bat,” you mumbled as you staggered past him, going to sit down on the edge of the couch. “So, it– the symbiote. It is sentient.”

Eddie moved to lean on the wall opposite you, thankfully giving you the room you needed to process things. “Painfully so. Can’t get it to shut up half the time. Ow! Goddamn it!” You looked up to see him rubbing at the side of his neck, where a tiny bite mark was visible. “Quit it!”

“You bonded with it.” You and the others at the Lab had guessed that it would be possible for a human to ‘host’ the symbiote. It hadn’t been proven, merely an educated hypothesis. But you knew now that Carlton Drake hadn’t been merely ‘studying’ the symbiotes. He’d been experimenting on them, and on people.

“Yeah. Drake…. Bastard caught me while I was snooping around and used me as an experiment. He expected it to kill me, not bond with me and use me to escape.”

“Use you?”

“Wasn’t exactly planning on bonding with an alien,” Eddie drawled with a tired smirk. “It’s been…. hard. It– Venom. It’s predatory as hell. Kill first, nevermind the questions, y’know? But I can be a stubborn bastard too. And apparently symbiotes prefer willing hosts rather than ones they have to constantly fight with. So we came to an…. understanding. I honestly didn’t expect him to drag me here. Or that he even knew anyone else in the City.”

You tightened your hand on the bat at the curious tone of his voice. “I had a part time job at the Life Foundation. I didn’t know about…. most of what you told me. The human experiments, the other symbiotes…. I’m just a geneticist, fuck I’m still in University…. I’m basically a glorified lab rat. I thought it was a good job but….”

“But you figured out the symbiote was sentient.”

“Yeah. There was another scientist that liked to torment it, and I threatened him into backing off….” You rose your gaze to Eddie, who was watching you calmly. “Is it alright? It’s safe with you?”

“Kinda more like I’m safe with it.” He let you digest that for a moment before pushing off from the wall. “He wants to talk to you. Is that alright?”

You blinked. “It… it can do that?”

“With a host, yeah. Just…. don’t scream.”

“Scream? Why would I–” Your eyes widened as blackness encompassed Eddie. It cocooned him, growing bigger, easily growing to seven feet tall, massive shoulders and arms, hands tipped with wicked talons. Pale eyes opened to peer at you, a long tongue curling out from a large fang filled maw to lick at it’s lips.

Okay, yeah. You felt like screaming.

Barely managed to stay quiet, merely clinging to your bat. A bat that the creature in front of you could probably use as a toothpick after it killed you and ate your corpse.

It - Venom - seemed upset at your fear, a voice like dark, predatory, rolling thunder filling the small apartment. “SHH, LITTLE MORSEL. WE WOULD NEVER HARM YOU. DON’T BE AFRAID.”

Afraid? Oh, you were beyond afraid. “To be fair, you’re…. very different,” you grated out. “And big. Very big.”

“HEH. THAT WE ARE. EDDIE IS A GOOD HOST. IF A LITTLE ANNOYING.” Venom walked across the room, crouching in front of you and reaching out to place a massive hand against your face, cupping your cheek. “WE WOULD HAVE KILLED HIM, BUT WE REMEMBERED YOU. REMEMBERED WHAT YOU SAID, THAT NOT ALL HUMANS ARE LIKE DRAKE OR ADAM. THAT SOME ARE LIKE YOU, KIND, BRAVE.”

Your breath left you in a trembling sigh. “Not that brave. I didn’t want to leave you there. I really didn’t.”

“THEY WOULD HAVE KILLED YOU, WE KNOW.” He rumbled, brushing his thumb across your cheek before pulling away, tilting his head as he regarded you. “WE WANT TO KEEP YOU SAFE. WE TOOK CARE OF THOSE STALKING YOU.”

“Stalking– You mean Drake’s men? But, he’ll know you’ve been here!”

A chuckle left him, low, baritone, predatory. “WE KNOW HOW TO COVER OUR TRACKS, MORSEL. THEY’LL NEVER FIND THE BODIES.”

You didn’t know if that was a comfort or not. Finally decided that you didn’t much care. Drake and his assholes could rot in hell. “Thanks. I didn’t much like them shadowing me all the time.”

“WE KNOW. WE WERE IN THE SHADOWS WHEN DRAKE OFFERED YOU MONEY FOR TURNING US IN.” At your horrified and shocked expression, he rumbled again, soothingly this time. “WE KNEW YOU WOULDN’T SIDE WITH HIM. BUT WE COULDN’T MEET YOU UNTIL WE TRACKED DOWN HIS MEN. THERE WERE MANY.”

“Do I even want to know how long you’ve been tailing me?”

A hissing laugh left him. “PROBABLY NOT.”

“Alrighty then.” Your hand cramped from clutching at the bat as tightly as you were, and you winced a bit as you forced your stiff fingers to uncurl from around it, setting it aside. Venom seemed pleased that you’d set your ‘weapon’ aside, a happy sort of murring noise leaving him. “So…. why did you track me down?”

“WANT TO KEEP YOU SAFE. AND….” You blinked at the tired grumble that followed. “EDDIE SAYS THAT WE SHOULD LEAVE, NOT INTRUDE, BUT WE HAVE NO WHERE ELSE TO GO.”

Did you really want an alien crashing on your couch? A sigh left you as you gave that some thought, but, in the end, you knew you’d cave. You had told the symbiote to track you down if it needed help, and it had. Hadn’t expected it to drag someone else along with it, but that just made things more complicated.

“Alright,” you murmured, smiling a little at the happy rumble that left Venom. “You can stay. You can sleep on the couch.”

He blinked and offered up a curious hiss. “NOT WITH YOU? YOU DON’T TRUST US? WAIT– EDDIE IS COMPLAINING AGAIN. BOUNDARIES?”

A soft laugh left you. “Humans don’t usually share beds with people unless they’re in a relationship with them.”

Fangs were bared in distaste. “THIS IS MORE WEIRD, COMPLICATED, HUMAN THINGS, ISN’T IT?”

“Yup.” You sent a glance at a clock, sighing when you saw it was past two-am. No way you were going to get any work done on that paper now. Class was at eight, and you had to be up and out of the apartment by seven. Five hours sleep…. ugh. “Look, I’m tired, and it’s so late that I’m going to skip my classes tomorrow. Lemme get some sleep, and I’ll let you ask all the questions you want about us weird, complicated, humans. Deal?”

“HEH. DEAL.”

Two hours later, you woke up to the feeling of a large body slipping into bed behind you, now-familiar cool tendrils curling around you as large arms encased you in a hug.

A low rumble sounded in your ear. “COUCH WAS LONELY. AND TOO SMALL.”

Absolutely no clue about boundaries.

[strikecommanding]

You mentioned the college student reader had a job to pay for school. Would professor jack ever show up?

sorry to keep you waiting so long for something so boring 😪 i needed to build the story a bit more lol

previous updates and extra content

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While your school life was eventful, to say the least, your part-time jobs always remained the same. You had to hold down two jobs in order to make enough money to support yourself, and between the two, you vastly preferred your day job at a restaurant some ways away from your apartment. It was in a nice area, so you were paid a little more than minimum wage and the patrons tended to leave generous tips.

Sometimes it was difficult just to pull yourself out of bed most days when you thought about how little control you actually had in your life, but your desire to go out and do something productive with yourself was always stronger. Mingling with your co-workers, socializing with nice customers and dealing with the bad ones, it all felt rewarding at the end of the day. Beyond the obvious need for money, what kept you clocking in was the feeling of being of some use to others, even in the smallest of ways.

The lull between lunch and dinner saw very few customers, so the hostess thought to take a quick break. You were wiping down tables and noticed the stand unattended when the front door jingled open, so you quickly leapt up to greet the customers who walked in. Upon seeing none other than Hana, you started to smile, but you froze dead in your tracks when you saw who followed immediately after her.

Dr. Morrison wore a soft, cordial smile in the face of your distress, allowing his daughter to do the talking. Hana didn’t seem to notice the significant drop in your mood as she grinned and greeted you, “Surprised to see me? I always did want to give this place a try and I wanted to see if you were working today!”

You had to physically tear your eyes away from the older man behind your friend in order to give her proper attention. A forced smile tugged on your lips as you replied, “I-I’m a little surprised, yeah. Follow me, please.”

You picked up two menus and started leading them to a booth, conscious of every step you took on the way. Knowing that Dr. Morrison’s eyes were on you in any context sent a wave of tremors through your bones, and you hoped to god that Hana didn’t notice. You had yet to say anything to her about her father’s behavior, and you intended to keep her in the dark about it. It wasn’t her fault that he was like this; the truth would crush her, and you felt like you had to protect her from it.

Dr. Morrison’s knuckles brushed against yours as he slid past you and into his seat, causing you to jump just the tiniest bit. You cleared your throat to get yourself back into sorts and handed off their menus to them, asking quietly if you could start them off with anything to drink.

Hana looked you up and down before abruptly turning to her father, frowning. “Dad, I told you you shouldn’t have come here with me. You’re freaking her out.”

He let out a good-natured laugh, and you were astounded by the fact that he could put on such a genuine and decent face. You were too used to that awful sneer he always wore whenever he had you in his office and at his mercy. Rather than chime in, you stared at your blank notepad like it was the most interesting thing in the world as he spoke. “Is it so bad to treat my daughter to lunch?”

At that, she visibly perked up and began eagerly leafing through the menu. “Your treat, huh? I’ll make the most of it then.”

For the most part, you were tuned out of their conversation, as you were too busy trying to figure out why exactly they decided to dine here, of all places. Maybe Hana truly did want to give this restaurant a try, and she’d unknowingly brought your tormentor right to you. Or maybe Dr. Morrison had already known that you worked here. You wouldn’t put it past him to find out where you worked, and the thought that he might know any number of things about you chilled your blood. It reminded you that his grip on you extended beyond the confines of the school.

You were brought back to the present by Hana’s chipper voice calling your name. “What would you recommend as a starter?”

You cleared your throat and tried to regain your composure, and it was easy enough if you looked only at your friend while completely ignoring her father’s presence. “Um, the arugula with fresh fruit is a favorite, especially now that strawberries are in season–” you informed her before catching yourself and shaking your head. “Wait. You’re allergic to strawberries. Right. My bad.”

Hana looked up at you with a bright grin, and for a moment, you felt assured. “You know me too well.”

Your responding smile was genuine, at least until Dr. Morrison joined the conversation. He cocked his head like he was curious, but you knew the sinister nature beneath that feigned look of concern. “Are you all right? You seem… out of it.”

It took you a moment to work up the nerve to look at him, and when you did, you felt like you were about ten inches tall. The tension in the air was palpable for just you as you quietly answered, “I’m fine, sir. It’s, ah… been a long day.”

The corner of his lips quirked up in a crooked, slimy smile that made you sick. “We’d better not work you too hard then.”

He practically had you trembling, but Hana was there to unwittingly defuse the situation by reaching across the table and lightly slapping her father’s arm. “Oh, leave her alone, Dad. Like you know how hard it is to work in food services.”

You were able to hold it together just long enough to receive their orders, which you passed along to the chef. Finally, you had a moment alone, at which point you excused yourself to the restroom to have a brief breakdown in solitude.

In a lonely stall, you crouched down into a squat and held your head in your hands. As horrifying as it was to see Dr. Morrison at your workplace, you couldn’t afford to go back out there without wearing your best face. Not in front of your boss, or your co-workers – especially not in front of Hana. The truth would break her heart, and you wanted no part in that.

In time, you managed to put yourself back together and headed out to the kitchen. Their appetizers were ready, so you picked them up along with their drinks and returned to their table with the best neutral expression you could manage. You nearly made it back to the kitchen scot-free when Hana called for your attention, and then you were forced to stay behind for a little while longer. She looked around. “It’s pretty dead around this time, huh?”

You followed her gaze as it swept over all the empty tables and you shrugged. “Yeah, it starts to get busier in a few hours.”

“So it’s okay for me to monopolize your time for a bit, right?” she remarked with a grin, clearly innocent in her request but unknowingly putting you through more discomfort than you were currently equipped for. “We never get to hang out anymore. I had to track you down at your job just to get to see you.”

You laughed half-heartedly and fidgeted with the hem of your apron. “Well, you know me. Always busy.”

“Still, it’s good to make time for your friends,” Dr. Morrison spoke up, causing you to stiffen and immediately drop your arms back at your sides, like two useless weights. If he noticed his effect on you, his expression didn’t give anything away. “You’re both still young. Enjoy it while you can.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that, but thankfully, Hana filled the silence for you. She made a face at her father and commented, “It’s because you talk like that that you seem hundreds of years older than you really are. That’s why no one wants to date you.”

His laugh at his daughter’s playfully scathing remark seemed to be genuine, and you figured it would have been acceptable for you to laugh along with them if you weren’t so inside your own head at the moment. He shook his head and replied, “I’m too old to be going out and dating. That sort of thing is best left to the young, and I missed my chance.”

Hana rested her chin in her palm while idly poking at her food before looking up at you and offering context. “Dad went straight into the military once he turned 18. How long did you serve, Dad?”

“20 years,” he said, pausing only to take a sip of his water. You were still uncomfortable around him, but Hana’s presence helped you see him in a different light. Without her, he was just a monster who was responsible for a tremendous amount of stress in your life, but now you could see him as just a person. This change in perspective helped you keep quiet and listen as he explained, “Right after dedicating my life to my country, I dedicated it to my education. They both took up so much of my time that I never really had the chance to socialize or meet anyone.”

You shifted your weight onto the other leg, taking in his words. “Sounds lonely.”

Dr. Morrison looked up at you, perhaps surprised to hear you chime in, but his eyes were off of you just as fast. Instead, he turned his attention to Hana, who responded with a sweet smile. “It was. Life just isn’t fulfilling without family, so I adopted Hana. It was the best decision I ever made.”

Her smile somehow managed to grow even wider as she reached across the table to gently place her hand on top of his. You instantly looked away, like you were witnessing something you didn’t deserve to see. Your own family situation was nowhere near as loving, so it was a bit foreign to be privy to this sort of affection. “It’s still lonely sometimes,” she remarked, a touch of sadness in her voice. “But it makes you value each other that much more when you’re all the other has. There’s no one else I’d rather have beside me than dear old Dad.”

You were more or less numb to her sentiments, but you did your best to try to understand. Then, the shrill sound of a bell being tapped repeatedly from the kitchen grabbed your attention. Straightening up, you informed them that you would be back with their entrees in just a moment.

You couldn’t help but feel a bit distraught after hearing Hana’s side of things. As much as you loathed Dr. Morrison for how he treated you, you were forced to remember that he was somebody’s father, and that he wasn’t such a source of evil in other people’s lives. The idea that you hated someone who meant so much to Hana made your chest feel tight. On one hand, you knew your feelings were justified, but on the other, you felt like you needed to try even harder to hide your discomfort from Hana. You couldn’t let her ideal image of her father be ruined.

The rest of their stay at the restaurant went mostly without incident, as you dropped off their food and explained that you really couldn’t stick around to chat for much longer. Dinner rush was just about to begin, so you tried to avoid their table for as long as you could by tending to the other customers. Only when they finished their meal and requested the bill did you have to return to them.

You were coming back from the register with Dr. Morrison’s card and his receipt when you noticed Hana was missing. She’d probably gone to the restroom, unfortunately leaving you to interact with her father on your own. You swallowed hard and steeled your nerves as you approached, hoping to drop off his things without having to linger. Of course, it could never be that easy, as he reached out and snatched your wrist before you could get away.

You pursed your lips to hide the gasp that threatened to surface, and you glared past his silver-rimmed glasses into his cold, impassive eyes. The mock concern in his tone didn’t reach his gaze. “Poor thing, running yourself ragged in a place like this just to get by.”

With a scowl, you easily snatched your hand back from him. “I was doing just fine before you showed up.”

He leaned back, clearly unaffected by your hostility. “I could make your life so much easier if you would only let me. If you’d only stop refusing me, I could take care of you.”

His words both unnerved you and made you sick. Did he thinking he was doing you a service with the way he was treating you, and that you were in the wrong for resisting him? Instead of asking for clarification, you spat, “You almost had me fooled with that sob story. You almost got me to see you as a man instead of a monster.”

“I think you’re in dire need of a new perspective,” he remarked. His eyes on you were so intense that you lost your nerve and looked the other way. “Maybe I’m not as bad as you think I am.”

Before you could even think to offer another scathing reply, you noticed Hana returning to the table and immediately backed off. You cleared your throat and turned to her with a pleasant smile, trying to shake off your nerves. “Thanks for dropping by. I swear, I’ll try to make time to hang out soon.”

“It’s a promise,” she grinned, gathering her things so she could head out. Dr. Morrison almost followed her, but he just had to stop to get the last word with you.

“I left you a tip,” he murmured, far too close for your comfort. When you tried to back up, he grabbed your wrist and held you in place. “Consider it a taste of just how kind I can be. If I feel like you need more, I know exactly where to find you.”

You only seemed to be able to pull your hand back from him because he decided to let you go. After ensuring that you were sufficiently unnerved, he left you with a chilling smile and a slight nod. You watched him leave, like you couldn’t even think to move until you made sure that he was gone and off the premises. Finally, you cleared your throat and began wiping down the table, at first merely glancing at the bills folded neatly beneath the salt shaker.

Then your eyes blew wide open once you got a closer look. That was unmistakably a $100 bill sitting atop the pile, and you reached for it with trembling hands to examine just how much money he’d left you. It was a $500 tip overall.

You were hit with a number of warring emotions as you leafed through each crisp bill. You thought about how easy it must have been for him to make a profit like this, something you would normally have to slave over. That he had the nerve to flaunt his lifestyle by leaving you such an outrageous tip made you furious, but that anger was extinguished by the idea of how much easier things would be for a while. Grocery expenses would be taken care of for at least a couple of weeks, and you could probably turn down overtime shifts both here and at your other job. You suddenly had more free time to look forward to.

Swallowing your pride, you slipped the bills into your pocket and resumed wiping down the table. You hated that man, but you couldn’t just overlook the fact that his actions, regardless of the intent behind them, would only make your life easier. You couldn’t, in good faith, accept that much money without showing real graciousness to the person who gave it to you, even if he did make your life a living hell.

[nancygduarteus]

Therapy for Everybody

JOHNSON CITY, Tennessee—The first patient of the morning had been working 119 hours a week. Greta (not her real name) had been coming home late at night, skipping dinner, and crashing into bed. One recent night, her college-aged daughter melted down, telling an exhausted Greta that her parents’ marital tensions were putting a strain on her.

“She’s like, ‘Why don’t you just divorce him?’” Greta recounted to her psychotherapist, Thomas Bishop, who was perched on a rolling stool in the bright examination room. “‘Why don’t you just do it and get it over with?’” Greta planned to stay with her husband, but her daughter’s outburst worried her. “Is this going to affect the way she feels about relationships?” she asked Bishop.

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Though it was just 14 minutes into the therapy session, and Greta had only seen him a few times, Bishop tried his best to interpret the daughter’s feelings. “There’s a period developmentally where we kind of look and go, ‘Gosh, I wish mom and dad were this way,’” he explained. Later, in their 30s, people realize their parents “are what they are,” he added.

“So this is her struggle, not your struggle,” Bishop told Greta, reassuringly. He wrapped up with some practical tips, urging Greta to compartmentalize her work and life issues, perhaps by journaling or taking a different route home from work.

Greta seemed genuinely pleased as Bishop swept out of the exam room. Her therapy session had lasted just 20 minutes.

Two weeks prior, Greta had walked into the clinic, a family-medicine practice situated on the campus of East Tennessee State University, hoping to see a primary-care doctor because she was so stressed she could barely function. When the receptionist initially told her, because of a miscommunication, that it would take a month to be seen, Greta cried, “I’ll be dead by then!” She was seen that day. After a medical resident finished evaluating her physically, he called in Bishop, the psychotherapist.

Bishop is part of a unique new breed of psychologists who plant themselves directly in medical offices. In clinics like ETSU’s, the therapists eschew the familiar couch-and-office setup. Instead, they pop right into in-progress medical appointments and deliver a few minutes of blitz psychotherapy. (ETSU allowed me to visit the clinic and sit in on patient visits as long as I did not disclose their real names or identifying details.)

Exploring one’s demons by the 50-minute hour might be a relatively common practice in large cities, but ETSU’s clinic is situated in the thick of Appalachia, where mental-health care is both less familiar and less accessible. Johnson City has recently witnessed an economic revival, with its brewery scene a modest tourism draw, but the surrounding region is still dotted with discount stores and unpainted shacks. Bishop’s patients bring him stories not only of family and marital strife, but also of financial pressures. If the trope is that psychologists help the “worried well,” this clinic helps the worn-out but hanging-in.

Also stationed in the clinic’s busy atrium that day was Jodi Polaha, a fellow psychologist, ETSU professor, and evangelist for this kind of therapy, which is called “integrated behavioral health care.” Along with providing therapy to patients, the clinic’s psychologists help train the clinic’s medical residents to employ their therapy techniques, which emphasize finding solutions. Some of the most common issues that send people to their primary-care doctors—like bellyaches and backaches—often don’t have clear physical causes. “It’s usually some lifestyle change that’s needed,” Polaha said. “That’s where we come in.”

Integrated psychologists can help patients manage their pain at home so they, for example, don’t run to the emergency room at the slightest twinge. One chronic-pain patient, who saw painkillers as the only way to ease her suffering, recently told Bishop that one of the residents gave her some of his “Buddha stuff”—relaxation exercises to do at home. Savings like these are especially important to the perennial American quest to cut health-care costs. An estimated 5 percent of the U.S. population accounts for 50 percent of all medical costs, and mood disorders are one of the most common conditions these high spenders suffer from. Some types of psychotherapy can make patients more likely to adhere to a doctor’s medical advice or to follow-through on weight-loss plans, saving a medical practice time and money in the long run.

The clinic charges uninsured people on an income-based sliding scale, and patients aren’t charged an extra co-pay if a therapist drops in on their medical visits.

Bishop, a 52-year-old who squints when he smiles, is the earnest one. (He frequently mentions that he has been married 31 years and has moved 20 times.) Polaha, who is 47 and looks like a nerdier Robin Wright, is more irreverent. One day during my visit, a clinic resident, Becca Sacora, approached Polaha to see if she wanted to check in on one of Sacora’s patients. “She’s a pretty sick lady,” Sacora said. “I’ve been putting out fires with her medical state. She’s 39 and has a severe history of anxiety and depression.”

“If you’re not busy,” Polaha responded, “it would be great if you could work with me on an introduction” to the patient. Then she added with a wink, “It’ll take two minutes of your time, and then you can go back to looking at Facebook or whatever you do all day.”

The next morning, I went on a pre-dawn hike in the Appalachian Mountains with Polaha and Bishop—grueling feats of athleticism being the preferred activity of these two middle-aged colleagues. Other days, Polaha does open-water swimming or weightlifting, and Bishop trains for one of his frequent marathons.

In the freezing dark, Polaha pulled on her headlamp and leapt into the air a few times: “Let’s get warmed up!”

“Exercise is stress management,” she assured me, as we trekked straight upward and snot ran down my face.

Polaha, who grew up near Philadelphia, got into rural medicine as a grad student at Auburn University in Alabama, where she treated poor, troubled kids. Some of the kids didn’t have running water, and they gave her head lice, but she loved feeling needed. She went on to practice pediatric psychology in Nebraska, traveling around the state to help kids whose developmental or emotional problems were too severe for their small-town doctors to fix. Once a week, she would work with primary-care doctors in a town called Hastings, staying at a Comfort Inn. When she left that job, the Comfort Inn threw her a going-away party.

Polaha and her husband moved to Johnson City in 2006. At the time, Bishop was already practicing integrated care in a nearby town. He’s a northerner like Polaha, but his blue-collar past helps him relate to his patients, a quarter of whom are on Medicaid. Bishop spent his childhood in Flint, Michigan, helping raise his own younger brothers and sisters after his parents divorced. The experience made him embrace chaotic environments, like that of the juvenile offenders he worked with in Michigan.

Integrated care helps solve a lot of the problems with more traditional forms of psychotherapy—like getting to a therapist, which can be impossible for many Americans. About half of U.S. counties don’t have any mental-health providers, and about a third of psychotherapists don’t accept insurance at all. An hour is a long time to take out of one’s workday, so many patients don’t show up to psychologist appointments, even when they’re referred by their regular doctor. “Physicians used to call us black holes,” Polaha explained.

By offloading mental concerns to an on-site psychologist, the primary-care doctors’ time is freed up. Doctors can see more patients, so the clinic makes more money, which can be used to pay the psychologist.

There aren’t clear numbers on how many primary-care practices in the U.S. are integrated to ETSU’s extent, but one study found 23 percent of rural primary-care practices, and 40 percent of urban ones, have a mental-health provider onsite. In many cases, though, “integrated” just means the two providers have offices in the same building.

When Polaha arrived in Tennessee, she heard about Bishop’s work and persuaded him to join the university’s medical school. Eventually, they opened up the integrated practice together. Today, Polaha splits her time between clinical work, research, and teaching. “Since he’s been here, we’ve been able to do even more,” Polaha explained as we hiked, not even straining to keep up her rapid-fire speech. “Plus [we] have time to go hiking.”

At the clinic, a resident pulled Bishop into another room, this time to speak to a patient who had cycled through several antidepressants, ADHD drugs, and sedatives. Now, she was asking her primary-care doctor about getting on a new stimulant drug to help her focus at her new job.

This is fairly common: Primary-care doctors, for instance, are the ones who prescribe the bulk of the antidepressants that Americans gobble down. In most cases, they do so without diagnosing the patient with any clear psychiatric problem.

Meanwhile, typical primary care often fails to catch mental-health issues in people who don’t know they have them. The U.S. Preventative Services Task Force recommends that all American adults be screened for depression at primary-care doctors’ visits, but only 4 percent of primary-care appointments include this type of screening. Normal primary-care doctors may feel too busy or ill-equipped to provide mental-health care without a psychologist present, or they may not be able to bill insurance for it. “I went to the minute clinic this weekend because I was afraid I had an ear infection,” Charles Ingoglia, a senior vice president at the National Council for Behavioral Health, told me. “In the course of talking to the [nurse practitioner], she indicated that she would not feel comfortable screening for depression, as she has no resources to do anything about it if a screen was positive.” In other words, she needs a Tom or Jodi.

“If I don’t keep it together at work, I’m going to lose my job,” said Bishop’s patient, a 30-something mom and bill collector. “It’s the highest-paying job that I’ve ever had.” Bishop asked her about her childhood, figuring that any signs of ADHD would have emerged when she was young. Growing up was just “eh,” she said. “My mom was very strict, very ... judgmental.”

“Did you do any counseling or anything when you were young?” Bishop asked.

“No. My mom doesn’t believe in it,” she responded, her voice breaking.

In her new job, “there’s no room for error,” Jane said. But she doubts herself constantly. Her manager scolds her, then wonders why she second-guesses herself. “She reminds me of my mom a little bit,” Jane said.

Jane dropped out of college twice. She knew she could do the work, but every time she stepped foot on campus, she had an anxiety attack. By the time she got to class, “my heart would be palpitating so fast that I wouldn’t even be able to hear the teacher.”

“I’m not completely convinced that this is ADHD,” Bishop told her. And given her anxiety levels, he said, he didn’t want her to take more stimulants. Before leaving the room, Bishop suggested she also meet, for no extra charge, with the health coach—one the clinic also employs—to help her lose weight and drink less.

“You’re awesome!” Bishop said. The woman chuckled a bit as she wiped her tears.

The week before I visited, there was a hate crime in Polaha’s neighborhood. Someone threw a dismembered cow carcass in the yard of a woman who had decked out her house in gay-pride flags. They also scattered about 70 nails near her car.

The following Sunday, Polaha and her neighbors rallied around the woman, standing in the park and selling rainbow flags to raise money for LGBT causes. On top of the gay-rights activism, Polaha also sits on a committee of mothers concerned about gun violence and is part of a supper club devoted to discussing topics like philosophy and ethics. Her county, like the rest of Tennessee, overwhelmingly supported Donald Trump last November, but Polaha showed up to the polls in an all-white pantsuit and later helped organize the local Women’s March.

At the park fundraiser, Polaha explained to me an analogy she often uses to get patients to make small, incremental changes in their lives. Think of a target, she said, and think of the bull’s eye as representing your values. “If each thing you do all day long is throwing a dart at this target, where would you say your darts are landing?” Polaha asked. If your darts aren’t landing near your values, “What are some things you could do today? Tomorrow morning? This week?” Patients, she told me, will say things like, “I could take my dog for a walk,” or, “I could offer to drive my husband to work.” Before long, patients start to resemble the good mom or loving wife they envisioned at their target’s center.

I had seen Polaha use this technique at the clinic with an overwhelmed mom of twins. The woman had arrived weeping because her neighbor criticized her parenting skills, which she was already feeling insecure about. “It’s like a never-ending sleepover at my house,” the woman complained.

Polaha told the mom to imagine herself as a captain navigating a ship through a terrible squall. The mom had to choose between forging ahead to the other shore—that is, parenting her rambunctious kids the best she could—or retreating below deck to cognitively hide under some blankets. It might be more comfortable to seek cover from the gales of parenting, Polaha explained, but it would come at the expense of the twins’ health and development.

Watching her sell rainbow flags in a park in rural Tennessee, I asked Polaha whether it ever bothers her that her patients are, statistically, likelier to be Trump voters than not. I wondered how she, a woman who devotes much of her spare time to progressive causes, mentally digests the fact that her patients’ values, which she tries to get them to endorse more fervently, might be radically different from her own.

Polaha minimized the importance of political identity to a person’s overall value system. “Everybody, in their core,” she said, “wants kind of the same sorts of five or 10 things, right?”

Anyone who happened to spot a friend or neighbor walking into the ETSU clinic waiting room would never know whether they’re there to get their minds or bodies checked. That’s important, because stigma surrounds people with mental illnesses—as anyone who has ever had to explain a mid-workday jaunt to their therapist knows.

That stigma might be especially pronounced in areas where therapists are a foreign concept. For some Appalachians who suffer from depression or anxiety, “they’ll attribute it to ‘nerves,’” Miranda Waters, a psychometrist at West Virginia University Hospitals, told me. Waters grew up in Stearns, Kentucky, about three hours from Johnson City. The advice from locals, she told me, would often be: “Go to your doctor and get something for your nerves.”

Religion is a source of comfort and strength to many here. But a deep devotion to Christianity is viewed, by some, as a replacement for professional psychological help. “There’s a lot of ... thinking that, if you go to church, if you pray, if you’re faithful, you can get over a mental illness,” Waters said.

Several locals I met around town echoed this sentiment. One 63-year-old woman named Nancy, who was shopping at a nearby Walmart, swiftly told me, “No, no,” when I asked if people in the area get therapy. “We go to church,” she added. “We pray for the best.”

Compounding the cultural obstacles, there are only enough resources to treat four in 10 Tennesseans who need mental-health care, according to Marie Williams, the commissioner for the Tennessee Department of Mental Health and Substance Abuse Services. Appalachian cities have some social workers and master’s-level practitioners, but unlike in larger cities, there aren’t as many doctorate-level professionals who open up private practices here, Waters said.

To Polaha and Bishop, that’s precisely why their model can help in areas where people can’t or won’t get therapy otherwise. In one large study, elderly people were more likely to accept mental-health care at their primary-care doctors’ offices than at specialty mental-health clinics. In other words, if more primary-care providers embedded therapists into their practices, therapy could shed both its luxury status and its shame factor. It could become as ordinary and widespread as taking high-blood-pressure medications.

Bishop described a patient who came into the ETSU clinic recently and said, “I’m only here for my physicians’ assistant. There’s nothing you can do to help me.”

Bishop said, “You’re right, there’s nothing I can do to help you.”

That patient ended up coming to him for two years.

“Does everybody need psychotherapy? No,” Bishop said. “Could everyone benefit from psychotherapy? Probably.” Even Polaha once got therapy to overcome her public-speaking jitters—long after she’d already received her psychology doctorate.

With therapy so readily available, it might be hard for Bishop and Polaha’s patients to determine just how much therapy is enough—another struggle well-known to therapy-goers everywhere. Not unlike packing, therapy seems to take as much time as you have. Some studies show even one session of some types of therapy can help beat back depression, but the benefits of therapy tend to fizzle out as the number of sessions enters the double-digits. Bishop says a good therapist is a “mirror,” helping patients see their life goals more clearly, and reach them. Once you’ve achieved your goals, there’s little point in continuing.

I thought about my own therapy, which largely consists of me explaining the economic realities of journalism, over and over again, to a petite, middle-aged woman, after which she tells me to do more mindfulness exercises and charges me $170. “I wonder if I’ve been doing my therapy wrong,” I mused to Bishop during one quiet moment in the clinic.

“You’ve said that about four or five times in the last few days,” he said. “I think you should approach your therapist about that. I mean that sincerely.”

With his own patients, Bishop is sometimes the one who suggests it’s time to say goodbye. “I see myself working myself out of a job from day one,” he said.

At one point, it seemed like Bishop was trying to feel out whether one patient should still be coming to see him. She was a woman in her 50s, but she looked about 70, with a raspy voice and a tired expression, though she said she was feeling good. She had been seeing Bishop for years, talking about her struggle to quit smoking and a tessellating array of family issues. The woman spoke slowly and cautiously, in short sentences. At times, she sounded like she was answering a boring questionnaire rather than unburdening herself.

“Is it still helpful to meet?” Bishop asked finally.

“Yes,” she responded, to my surprise. She had been feeling more isolated from her friends than normal recently. “With me not being able to get to church, it’s nice to have a friend I can visit and talk with.”

Over the coming months, the woman did return to see Bishop several more times. But in the end, it was Bishop who announced he was moving on: He had accepted a new role at another university’s family-medicine center, where this coming year he will set up another integrated behavioral health practice. When Bishop offered to transfer her to a new therapist at ETSU, the woman declined. Even briskly efficient therapists, it seems, are too much like friends to be interchangeable.

from Health News And Updates https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2017/06/therapy-for-everybody/531120/?utm_source=feed

[ionecoffman]

Therapy for Everybody

JOHNSON CITY, Tennessee—The first patient of the morning had been working 119 hours a week. Greta (not her real name) had been coming home late at night, skipping dinner, and crashing into bed. One recent night, her college-aged daughter melted down, telling an exhausted Greta that her parents’ marital tensions were putting a strain on her.

“She’s like, ‘Why don’t you just divorce him?’” Greta recounted to her psychotherapist, Thomas Bishop, who was perched on a rolling stool in the bright examination room. “‘Why don’t you just do it and get it over with?’” Greta planned to stay with her husband, but her daughter’s outburst worried her. “Is this going to affect the way she feels about relationships?” she asked Bishop.

Though it was just 14 minutes into the therapy session, and Greta had only seen him a few times, Bishop tried his best to interpret the daughter’s feelings. “There’s a period developmentally where we kind of look and go, ‘Gosh, I wish mom and dad were this way,’” he explained. Later, in their 30s, people realize their parents “are what they are,” he added.

“So this is her struggle, not your struggle,” Bishop told Greta, reassuringly. He wrapped up with some practical tips, urging Greta to compartmentalize her work and life issues, perhaps by journaling or taking a different route home from work.

Greta seemed genuinely pleased as Bishop swept out of the exam room. Her therapy session had lasted just 20 minutes.

Two weeks prior, Greta had walked into the clinic, a family-medicine practice situated on the campus of East Tennessee State University, hoping to see a primary-care doctor because she was so stressed she could barely function. When the receptionist initially told her, because of a miscommunication, that it would take a month to be seen, Greta cried, “I’ll be dead by then!” She was seen that day. After a medical resident finished evaluating her physically, he called in Bishop, the psychotherapist.

Bishop is part of a unique new breed of psychologists who plant themselves directly in medical offices. In clinics like ETSU’s, the therapists eschew the familiar couch-and-office setup. Instead, they pop right into in-progress medical appointments and deliver a few minutes of blitz psychotherapy. (ETSU allowed me to visit the clinic and sit in on patient visits as long as I did not disclose their real names or identifying details.)

Exploring one’s demons by the 50-minute hour might be a relatively common practice in large cities, but ETSU’s clinic is situated in the thick of Appalachia, where mental-health care is both less familiar and less accessible. Johnson City has recently witnessed an economic revival, with its brewery scene a modest tourism draw, but the surrounding region is still dotted with discount stores and unpainted shacks. Bishop’s patients bring him stories not only of family and marital strife, but also of financial pressures. If the trope is that psychologists help the “worried well,” this clinic helps the worn-out but hanging-in.

Also stationed in the clinic’s busy atrium that day was Jodi Polaha, a fellow psychologist, ETSU professor, and evangelist for this kind of therapy, which is called “integrated behavioral health care.” Along with providing therapy to patients, the clinic’s psychologists help train the clinic’s medical residents to employ their therapy techniques, which emphasize finding solutions. Some of the most common issues that send people to their primary-care doctors—like bellyaches and backaches—often don’t have clear physical causes. “It’s usually some lifestyle change that’s needed,” Polaha said. “That’s where we come in.”

Integrated psychologists can help patients manage their pain at home so they, for example, don’t run to the emergency room at the slightest twinge. One chronic-pain patient, who saw painkillers as the only way to ease her suffering, recently told Bishop that one of the residents gave her some of his “Buddha stuff”—relaxation exercises to do at home. Savings like these are especially important to the perennial American quest to cut health-care costs. An estimated 5 percent of the U.S. population accounts for 50 percent of all medical costs, and mood disorders are one of the most common conditions these high spenders suffer from. Some types of psychotherapy can make patients more likely to adhere to a doctor’s medical advice or to follow-through on weight-loss plans, saving a medical practice time and money in the long run.

The clinic charges uninsured people on an income-based sliding scale, and patients aren’t charged an extra co-pay if a therapist drops in on their medical visits.

Bishop, a 52-year-old who squints when he smiles, is the earnest one. (He frequently mentions that he has been married 31 years and has moved 20 times.) Polaha, who is 47 and looks like a nerdier Robin Wright, is more irreverent. One day during my visit, a clinic resident, Becca Sacora, approached Polaha to see if she wanted to check in on one of Sacora’s patients. “She’s a pretty sick lady,” Sacora said. “I’ve been putting out fires with her medical state. She’s 39 and has a severe history of anxiety and depression.”

“If you’re not busy,” Polaha responded, “it would be great if you could work with me on an introduction” to the patient. Then she added with a wink, “It’ll take two minutes of your time, and then you can go back to looking at Facebook or whatever you do all day.”

The next morning, I went on a pre-dawn hike in the Appalachian Mountains with Polaha and Bishop—grueling feats of athleticism being the preferred activity of these two middle-aged colleagues. Other days, Polaha does open-water swimming or weightlifting, and Bishop trains for one of his frequent marathons.

In the freezing dark, Polaha pulled on her headlamp and leapt into the air a few times: “Let’s get warmed up!”

“Exercise is stress management,” she assured me, as we trekked straight upward and snot ran down my face.

Polaha, who grew up near Philadelphia, got into rural medicine as a grad student at Auburn University in Alabama, where she treated poor, troubled kids. Some of the kids didn’t have running water, and they gave her head lice, but she loved feeling needed. She went on to practice pediatric psychology in Nebraska, traveling around the state to help kids whose developmental or emotional problems were too severe for their small-town doctors to fix. Once a week, she would work with primary-care doctors in a town called Hastings, staying at a Comfort Inn. When she left that job, the Comfort Inn threw her a going-away party.

Polaha and her husband moved to Johnson City in 2006. At the time, Bishop was already practicing integrated care in a nearby town. He’s a northerner like Polaha, but his blue-collar past helps him relate to his patients, a quarter of whom are on Medicaid. Bishop spent his childhood in Flint, Michigan, helping raise his own younger brothers and sisters after his parents divorced. The experience made him embrace chaotic environments, like that of the juvenile offenders he worked with in Michigan.

Integrated care helps solve a lot of the problems with more traditional forms of psychotherapy—like getting to a therapist, which can be impossible for many Americans. About half of U.S. counties don’t have any mental-health providers, and about a third of psychotherapists don’t accept insurance at all. An hour is a long time to take out of one’s workday, so many patients don’t show up to psychologist appointments, even when they’re referred by their regular doctor. “Physicians used to call us black holes,” Polaha explained.

By offloading mental concerns to an on-site psychologist, the primary-care doctors’ time is freed up. Doctors can see more patients, so the clinic makes more money, which can be used to pay the psychologist.

There aren’t clear numbers on how many primary-care practices in the U.S. are integrated to ETSU’s extent, but one study found 23 percent of rural primary-care practices, and 40 percent of urban ones, have a mental-health provider onsite. In many cases, though, “integrated” just means the two providers have offices in the same building.

When Polaha arrived in Tennessee, she heard about Bishop’s work and persuaded him to join the university’s medical school. Eventually, they opened up the integrated practice together. Today, Polaha splits her time between clinical work, research, and teaching. “Since he’s been here, we’ve been able to do even more,” Polaha explained as we hiked, not even straining to keep up her rapid-fire speech. “Plus [we] have time to go hiking.”

At the clinic, a resident pulled Bishop into another room, this time to speak to a patient who had cycled through several antidepressants, ADHD drugs, and sedatives. Now, she was asking her primary-care doctor about getting on a new stimulant drug to help her focus at her new job.

This is fairly common: Primary-care doctors, for instance, are the ones who prescribe the bulk of the antidepressants that Americans gobble down. In most cases, they do so without diagnosing the patient with any clear psychiatric problem.

Meanwhile, typical primary care often fails to catch mental-health issues in people who don’t know they have them. The U.S. Preventative Services Task Force recommends that all American adults be screened for depression at primary-care doctors’ visits, but only 4 percent of primary-care appointments include this type of screening. Normal primary-care doctors may feel too busy or ill-equipped to provide mental-health care without a psychologist present, or they may not be able to bill insurance for it. “I went to the minute clinic this weekend because I was afraid I had an ear infection,” Charles Ingoglia, a senior vice president at the National Council for Behavioral Health, told me. “In the course of talking to the [nurse practitioner], she indicated that she would not feel comfortable screening for depression, as she has no resources to do anything about it if a screen was positive.” In other words, she needs a Tom or Jodi.

“If I don’t keep it together at work, I’m going to lose my job,” said Bishop’s patient, a 30-something mom and bill collector. “It’s the highest-paying job that I’ve ever had.” Bishop asked her about her childhood, figuring that any signs of ADHD would have emerged when she was young. Growing up was just “eh,” she said. “My mom was very strict, very ... judgmental.”

“Did you do any counseling or anything when you were young?” Bishop asked.

“No. My mom doesn’t believe in it,” she responded, her voice breaking.

In her new job, “there’s no room for error,” Jane said. But she doubts herself constantly. Her manager scolds her, then wonders why she second-guesses herself. “She reminds me of my mom a little bit,” Jane said.

Jane dropped out of college twice. She knew she could do the work, but every time she stepped foot on campus, she had an anxiety attack. By the time she got to class, “my heart would be palpitating so fast that I wouldn’t even be able to hear the teacher.”

“I’m not completely convinced that this is ADHD,” Bishop told her. And given her anxiety levels, he said, he didn’t want her to take more stimulants. Before leaving the room, Bishop suggested she also meet, for no extra charge, with the health coach—one the clinic also employs—to help her lose weight and drink less.

“You’re awesome!” Bishop said. The woman chuckled a bit as she wiped her tears.

The week before I visited, there was a hate crime in Polaha’s neighborhood. Someone threw a dismembered cow carcass in the yard of a woman who had decked out her house in gay-pride flags. They also scattered about 70 nails near her car.

The following Sunday, Polaha and her neighbors rallied around the woman, standing in the park and selling rainbow flags to raise money for LGBT causes. On top of the gay-rights activism, Polaha also sits on a committee of mothers concerned about gun violence and is part of a supper club devoted to discussing topics like philosophy and ethics. Her county, like the rest of Tennessee, overwhelmingly supported Donald Trump last November, but Polaha showed up to the polls in an all-white pantsuit and later helped organize the local Women’s March.

At the park fundraiser, Polaha explained to me an analogy she often uses to get patients to make small, incremental changes in their lives. Think of a target, she said, and think of the bull’s eye as representing your values. “If each thing you do all day long is throwing a dart at this target, where would you say your darts are landing?” Polaha asked. If your darts aren’t landing near your values, “What are some things you could do today? Tomorrow morning? This week?” Patients, she told me, will say things like, “I could take my dog for a walk,” or, “I could offer to drive my husband to work.” Before long, patients start to resemble the good mom or loving wife they envisioned at their target’s center.

I had seen Polaha use this technique at the clinic with an overwhelmed mom of twins. The woman had arrived weeping because her neighbor criticized her parenting skills, which she was already feeling insecure about. “It’s like a never-ending sleepover at my house,” the woman complained.

Polaha told the mom to imagine herself as a captain navigating a ship through a terrible squall. The mom had to choose between forging ahead to the other shore—that is, parenting her rambunctious kids the best she could—or retreating below deck to cognitively hide under some blankets. It might be more comfortable to seek cover from the gales of parenting, Polaha explained, but it would come at the expense of the twins’ health and development.

Watching her sell rainbow flags in a park in rural Tennessee, I asked Polaha whether it ever bothers her that her patients are, statistically, likelier to be Trump voters than not. I wondered how she, a woman who devotes much of her spare time to progressive causes, mentally digests the fact that her patients’ values, which she tries to get them to endorse more fervently, might be radically different from her own.

Polaha minimized the importance of political identity to a person’s overall value system. “Everybody, in their core,” she said, “wants kind of the same sorts of five or 10 things, right?”

Anyone who happened to spot a friend or neighbor walking into the ETSU clinic waiting room would never know whether they’re there to get their minds or bodies checked. That’s important, because stigma surrounds people with mental illnesses—as anyone who has ever had to explain a mid-workday jaunt to their therapist knows.

That stigma might be especially pronounced in areas where therapists are a foreign concept. For some Appalachians who suffer from depression or anxiety, “they’ll attribute it to ‘nerves,’” Miranda Waters, a psychometrist at West Virginia University Hospitals, told me. Waters grew up in Stearns, Kentucky, about three hours from Johnson City. The advice from locals, she told me, would often be: “Go to your doctor and get something for your nerves.”

Religion is a source of comfort and strength to many here. But a deep devotion to Christianity is viewed, by some, as a replacement for professional psychological help. “There’s a lot of ... thinking that, if you go to church, if you pray, if you’re faithful, you can get over a mental illness,” Waters said.

Several locals I met around town echoed this sentiment. One 63-year-old woman named Nancy, who was shopping at a nearby Walmart, swiftly told me, “No, no,” when I asked if people in the area get therapy. “We go to church,” she added. “We pray for the best.”

Compounding the cultural obstacles, there are only enough resources to treat four in 10 Tennesseans who need mental-health care, according to Marie Williams, the commissioner for the Tennessee Department of Mental Health and Substance Abuse Services. Appalachian cities have some social workers and master’s-level practitioners, but unlike in larger cities, there aren’t as many doctorate-level professionals who open up private practices here, Waters said.

To Polaha and Bishop, that’s precisely why their model can help in areas where people can’t or won’t get therapy otherwise. In one large study, elderly people were more likely to accept mental-health care at their primary-care doctors’ offices than at specialty mental-health clinics. In other words, if more primary-care providers embedded therapists into their practices, therapy could shed both its luxury status and its shame factor. It could become as ordinary and widespread as taking high-blood-pressure medications.

Bishop described a patient who came into the ETSU clinic recently and said, “I’m only here for my physicians’ assistant. There’s nothing you can do to help me.”

Bishop said, “You’re right, there’s nothing I can do to help you.”

That patient ended up coming to him for two years.

“Does everybody need psychotherapy? No,” Bishop said. “Could everyone benefit from psychotherapy? Probably.” Even Polaha once got therapy to overcome her public-speaking jitters—long after she’d already received her psychology doctorate.

With therapy so readily available, it might be hard for Bishop and Polaha’s patients to determine just how much therapy is enough—another struggle well-known to therapy-goers everywhere. Not unlike packing, therapy seems to take as much time as you have. Some studies show even one session of some types of therapy can help beat back depression, but the benefits of therapy tend to fizzle out as the number of sessions enters the double-digits. Bishop says a good therapist is a “mirror,” helping patients see their life goals more clearly, and reach them. Once you’ve achieved your goals, there’s little point in continuing.

I thought about my own therapy, which largely consists of me explaining the economic realities of journalism, over and over again, to a petite, middle-aged woman, after which she tells me to do more mindfulness exercises and charges me $170. “I wonder if I’ve been doing my therapy wrong,” I mused to Bishop during one quiet moment in the clinic.

“You’ve said that about four or five times in the last few days,” he said. “I think you should approach your therapist about that. I mean that sincerely.”

With his own patients, Bishop is sometimes the one who suggests it’s time to say goodbye. “I see myself working myself out of a job from day one,” he said.

At one point, it seemed like Bishop was trying to feel out whether one patient should still be coming to see him. She was a woman in her 50s, but she looked about 70, with a raspy voice and a tired expression, though she said she was feeling good. She had been seeing Bishop for years, talking about her struggle to quit smoking and a tessellating array of family issues. The woman spoke slowly and cautiously, in short sentences. At times, she sounded like she was answering a boring questionnaire rather than unburdening herself.

“Is it still helpful to meet?” Bishop asked finally.

“Yes,” she responded, to my surprise. She had been feeling more isolated from her friends than normal recently. “With me not being able to get to church, it’s nice to have a friend I can visit and talk with.”

Over the coming months, the woman did return to see Bishop several more times. But in the end, it was Bishop who announced he was moving on: He had accepted a new role at another university’s family-medicine center, where this coming year he will set up another integrated behavioral health practice. When Bishop offered to transfer her to a new therapist at ETSU, the woman declined. Even briskly efficient therapists, it seems, are too much like friends to be interchangeable.

Article source here:The Atlantic