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moonysreid · 1 month ago

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Muggle Pills

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: The boys learn what your pills do. Warnings: Mentions of seizures, depression and suicidal thoughts Series Masterlist

You sit cross-legged on the plush carpet of your bedroom floor, a small pile of pill boxes scattered around you. Your fingers move with practiced ease as you sort the pills into their respective compartments in a weekly divider—Monday through Sunday, morning, noon, and night.

It's a routine task, one that offers a strange sense of solace amidst the chaos of everything else. Plus, it saves you from the struggle of prying open blister packs every day.

Around you, the Marauders lounge about as if this were any other lazy afternoon. Sirius flips idly through a Quidditch magazine, his brows furrowing at an article about the latest racing broom. James lies sprawled out across your bed, tossing a Quaffle up and down while he debates strategy. Remus sits quietly in a corner, engrossed in a book, a sliver of sunlight illuminating the dust motes dancing around him. Your room has become their second home, just as comfortable and familiar as their dormitory.

They've grown accustomed to these quiet moments together, each occupied with their own thoughts or interests. And yet today, something shifts. A question hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

James is the first to break the silence, his voice cutting through the soft hum of activity. "Y/N?" He pauses, catching himself before the words tumble out unchecked. His gaze flickers over to where you sit, still dividing your medication for the week ahead. "Why... why do you take all those? Like, on top of the potions?"

For a moment, time seems to stretch thin, the seconds elongating as you weigh your answer. They've seen you like this before—pills in hand, water glass nearby—but never asked. Not until now. Something about the directness of the question gives you pause, but then you realize: they deserve to know. Especially now, when lines have blurred and friendships have blossomed into something more intimate, more profound.

"Right," you begin, letting out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. Your fingers trace the edge of the first pill box—a small, round tablet that's more crucial to your daily life than any potion or spell could ever be. "This one is for my blood pressure."

James, Sirius and Remus lean in closer, their attention rapt despite the seemingly mundane topic. The significance isn't lost on them; every detail about you feels important now, woven into the fabric of their care.

"It's always been too low," you explain, eyes downcast as if you're sharing some great secret. Perhaps it is, in its own way. An admission of frailty, of the battle you wage within your body each day. "If I don't take this, I get dizzy... faint sometimes."

A flicker of understanding passes across James's face, then Sirius's. They've seen you like that before, pale and unsteady in the corridors during your early years at Hogwarts. At the time, they'd chalked it up to nerves or fatigue—anything but a chronic condition. But now...

"Wait," Sirius says, his voice rough with concern. "Are those fainting spells why you had to go back to the hospital wing so often?"

You nod, a hint of relief washing over you. It's easier than you thought it would be, opening up about this part of your life. Maybe because they listen without judgement, accepting each revelation as another piece of the puzzle that is you.

"Yes. That was before I started taking this," you say, tapping the pill box lightly.

Sirius leans back slightly, processing this new information with a furrowed brow. He opens his mouth to speak again, but Remus beats him to it.

"Do you still feel like you might pass out even with the medication?" His tone is gentle yet probing, respectful of your boundaries but curious all the same.

"Sometimes." You shrug, trying to downplay the gravity of what living with such unpredictability means. "But it's better than before."

Remus nods, storing away this tidbit of knowledge like he does with everything else. He understands, perhaps better than anyone, what it means to navigate the world with a body that doesn't quite cooperate. And while your experiences are vastly different, there's a silent kinship in shared struggle—a bond forged through resilience and endurance.

"Next is this one." Your fingers move to a different compartment, closing around another pill. "It's for my heart rate."

Their brows furrow almost in unison, confusion etching lines across their young faces. You suppose it must be strange for them, hearing about the inner workings of your body when all they've ever known are charms and potions, Quidditch injuries and common colds.

"But isn't that connected to your blood pressure?" James asks, his forehead creased as he tries to make sense of it all.

"In a way, yes," you explain, appreciating his attempt to understand. "But while the first medication helps raise my blood pressure, this one keeps my resting heart rate from getting too high."

"That doesn't sound pleasant," Sirius chimes in, leaning back against the couch with a sigh. Although he's always been more comfortable with banter than serious conversations, there's an earnestness in his expression that speaks volumes about how much he cares.

"It's not something I feel most of the time," you admit, setting the second pill aside. "I don't really notice unless I forget to take it or if I'm especially stressed out. But without it, my heart behaves like I'm running even when I'm sitting still."

You let the implication hang in the air, a testament to the silent battles waged beneath your skin. A hush falls over the room, punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the fire. The boys exchange glances, each processing your revelation in their own way. From the corner of your eye, you see James run a hand through his already messy hair, a gesture betraying his unease.

"I remember once," you begin again, your voice barely above a whisper, "I got a concussion in school, no big deal but headed the A&E to be checked out, and I ended up being admitted because my heart rate was over 180 beats per minute and wouldn't come down. They were so alarmed, kept asking me if I felt okay..."

The memory is vivid, etched into your mind with sharp clarity. The steady beep of monitors, the worried faces of doctors—reminders of just how fragile human bodies can be.

"And did you?" Sirius interrupts, his grey eyes reflecting the flickering flames.

"Did I what?"

"Feel okay? Or were you..." He trails off, unable to finish the sentence. It's clear to see why; the notion of such turmoil within you, unbeknownst to them until now, is unsettling to say the least.

"I mean, my head was killing me but otherwise, I felt fine," you state, "but that doesn't mean it's safe to ignore."

There's a pause as they digest your words, the gravity of what you're sharing settling heavy in the silence. Remus shifts slightly beside you, his gaze thoughtful. As ever, he seems to carry an understanding beyond his years—a quiet wisdom born from living in the shadows.

"When we were in the hospital wing together in first and second year—you know, after the full moon and your... episodes," he begins cautiously, mindful of the delicate territory he's treading on. "Was this part of it? Your heart thing?"

You shake your head, offering him a small smile. "While I did have the heart rate as a problem, that's not why I was there."

Remus nods slowly, absorbing this new information. His brow furrows, not in judgement but in concern—a silent question lingering behind his amber eyes. How much more is there to learn?

"Right," you say, moving on to the next pill. It's a small orange capsule and looks innocuous enough, but its role is no less vital than the others. "This one's for my epilepsy."

"Epilepsy?" James blurts out, his eyes widening at the revelation.

The room goes quiet, save for the crackling of the fire in the background. Sirius and James exchange glances, their expressions mirroring the unease that hangs in the air.

You nod, acknowledging his surprise with a wry smile. "It helps prevent seizures. But it's not foolproof. I regularly have atonic seizures still, they only last a few seconds and nothing needs to be done with those. I don't really have big ones anymore, but when I get sick or stressed—or before I got my implant, when I had my period—I can still have them."

"How long have you..." James starts, then clears his throat, struggling to find the right words. "How long have you had epilepsy?"

"Basically my whole life," you answer simply. "But it's mostly managed now. The stress of exams and assignments can trigger the big seizures sometimes, but most people don't notice."

Sirius frowns, running a hand through his hair. "Have you had any since getting with us?"

"I mean, I've had little ones but not any big ones." You reach over to squeeze his hand reassuringly before letting go. "But during last year, I did have several because of the stress of OWLs."

His grip tightens around yours, concern etched into every line of his face. It's strange, seeing Sirius so unguarded, his usual bravado replaced by raw vulnerability. But then again, nothing about this situation is ordinary.

"You never told us," James says quietly, meeting your gaze with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt. He's not accusing, merely stating a fact—one that seems unthinkable given how close you all are.

"I didn't want to worry you, you were just my friends then," you admit, looking down at your hands. "Besides, you three were so focused on your own exams. You wouldn't have noticed even if you tried."

There's truth to your words, but they do little to ease the guilt that flashes across James's features, and Sirius remains silent, his grey eyes clouded with thought. Both boys are processing this new information, trying to reconcile the image of you—a force of nature, unbowed despite everything—with the reality of your condition.

Remus, who has been listening silently, finally speaks up. "I remember... those nights in the hospital wing when we were younger. I'd be in there because of the full moon, you'd be there because of a seizure…"

"Or worse," you say, almost to yourself. "To be honest, I was also there because no one trusted that I wouldn't try to kill myself, and no healer or doctor would give an 11-year-old birth control for their PMDD. I got the implant at 14, and the seizures went away with my period, as did the temptation to kill myself."

James blinks, stunned into silence. "I never knew any of this," he says at last, his voice barely above a whisper.

"By the time we became proper friends, I already had the implant. There was no reason to tell you about something that was no longer a problem." You give him a reassuring smile.

James nods slowly, although the concern has not entirely left his eyes. Sirius, too, seems pensive as he stares into the fireplace, blowing out a slow breath. Only Remus appears unchanged, his expression calm and thoughtful, as if the revelations were expected.

"Right," you say, taking a deep breath as you reach for the final pill box, a small white container that holds a different kind of lifeline. "This one's my antidepressant."

The change in atmosphere is almost palpable as James and Sirius stiffen beside you. Remus, ever the stoic observer, merely watches.

"Is that... because of everything else?" asks Sirius tentatively, his grey eyes searching yours for answers. You can tell he's treading carefully now, aware that this conversation has ventured into territory far more delicate than any duel or prank gone wrong.

"Yeah," you reply, letting out a long exhale. "It helps manage the lows, but it's not foolproof. Nothing really is."

James's thumb brushes over the back of your hand, tracing patterns there as if trying to will away the pain etched between your words. He doesn't speak, but his silence carries its own weight, heavy with understanding.

"You're not always..." James starts, then stops, uncertain how to phrase his question without sounding insensitive.

"Depressed?" you finish for him, offering a wry smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Not always, no. But when I am... well, let's just say it's better for everyone involved that I have these."

Your fingers tap against the pill bottle, the sound echoing lightly through the room.

A moment passes before Sirius breaks the silence. "And do they work? The pills, I mean." There's a hopeful note to his voice, laced with a quiet desperation that mirrors the way his eyes never leave your face.

"For the most part," you admit. "But like I said, they're not perfect. They help keep things under control, but they don't make my symptoms go away entirely. And some days are harder than others."

You pause, considering how best to explain what living with depression feels like—the relentless heaviness that often threatens to pull you under despite the medication designed to keep you afloat.

"It's like walking through a storm," you say finally. "Most days, the meds are like a good coat—they keep the worst of the rain off. But sometimes the storm gets too strong, and all the coat can do is stop you from getting completely soaked."

"Merlin," James breathes, running a hand through his hair as he processes your words. "Have you been dealing with all this since..."

"Birth?" you supply, nodding once. "Pretty much, yeah."

"Since you were a baby?" Sirius asks, his voice rough with disbelief. "How long have you been taking all these pills?"

"I was little when I was put on the epilepsy meds," you admit, "but the others were added as new conditions developed."

"And what happens if you forget to take one?" James's tone is gentle, but there's an underlying urgency that betrays his worry. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"Well, missing a dose here and there isn't the end of the world, usually." You shrug, trying to make light of it, though the truth is more complex. "But if I go too long without them... Let's just say it can lead to some serious complications."

Remus watches you, his gaze steady and thoughtful. "It must be exhausting," he says quietly, "keeping track of all this, making sure you're always taking the right thing at the right time. Especially with the potions you use for your pain."

"It's a lot," you agree, not seeing any point in denying it. "But the alternative..." Your voice trails off as you picture yourself without the medication: the pain, the fatigue, the despair. "Let's just say I'm grateful for muggle and wizarding medicine, even if it doesn't fix everything."

The words hang heavy in the air, a quiet echo of your confession ringing in the stillness of the room. The boys sit with straight spines and furrowed brows, each processing what you've just shared in their own way. For a moment, no one speaks, the silence filled only by the crackling fire and the soft patter of rain against the window.

The world of pills and doctors is foreign to them, so far removed from the magical healing they know. They are warriors in their own right, but this is a battle they do not understand, cannot see. It's in the lines that etch deeper into Sirius' forehead, the way his fists clench at his sides—not with anger towards you, but with a burning frustration for an enemy he cannot confront.

"I can't believe we didn't know," James finally breaks the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. It's not an accusation, merely a statement laced with self-reproach. But there's no need for you to respond; the truth of it hangs in the air around you. How could they have known? You've become a master at concealing the extent of your pain, hiding behind masks of normalcy even when your body screamed otherwise.

Sirius shifts slightly, and his voice is quiet when he finally breaks the silence, a note of confusion threading through the words.

"Why didn't you say something before?" It's not an accusation, just a question born from concern and a hint of hurt. Sirius has never liked being left in the dark, especially when it comes to those he cares about.

"I didn't want to worry you," your voice barely rises above a whisper, carrying with it a weight that sinks into the silence of the room. "And knowing doesn't change anything." You glance at them, each face mirroring the gravity of your confession. "It's not like any of you can fix it."

James looks as if he wants to argue, to insist that there must be something they can do. But he remains silent, understanding—for now—the boundaries you've put in place. Relief briefly washes over you, even as you see the frustration flicker in his hazel eyes. James has always been a man of action, someone who leaps forward to shield those he loves from harm. To know there's a wound he can't mend must feel like salt on an open cut.

"I don't need you to fix it," you say gently, guessing his thoughts. "I just need you to understand."

Remus nods, his face softening as he speaks for the first time in a while. "And we do," he says quietly, his voice calm and reassuring. "Or at least, we're starting to."

There's a pause as the four of you absorb this shared understanding, a quiet acknowledgement that hangs in the air like a promise. You can almost feel the shift in the room, tangible and real, a subtle strengthening of the bonds between you. They may not fully comprehend your reality, but they're reaching out, trying to bridge the gap. And for now, at least, it's enough.

The fire dances in the hearth, painting the room with flickering shadows and bathing you all in its comforting glow. For a moment, everything else falls away, leaving only the crackling flames, the soft murmur of conversation, and the sense of peace that seems to settle over the world outside.

You finish sorting your pills into their designated compartments, the rhythm of the task grounding you. The lid of the weekly pill organizer closes with a satisfying click, a small victory against the chaos that often threatens to consume you. It’s a simple act, but in these uncertain times, even the smallest semblance of control is a lifeline.

James, ever the man of action even in stillness, shifts on the bed, leaning closer. His voice is a low rumble, steady and sure. "You know we're here, right?" It's not just a question—it's a tether, a lifeline thrown out to you in the darkness. And it's a promise, one that James Potter has every intention of keeping.

Sirius doesn't let himself be left behind, his own hand reaching out to touch yours lightly. There's something almost reverent in the gesture, as if he's afraid you'll shatter at a heavier touch. "We're not going anywhere." The words hang in the air, solidifying into a pact made of iron will and unyielding loyalty. His grey eyes are hard with resolve, the decision made long before the words had even left his lips: He will stay by your side, through this and whatever comes next.

Remus doesn't say anything more, but the silence that stretches between you is far from empty. His gaze never wavers, each exhale a testament to the quiet vigil he keeps. He understands, perhaps better than anyone, the battles waged in silence, the wars fought within oneself. And though he doesn't speak, his presence is a constant reassurance—there, always there, offering strength when yours threatens to wane.

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