#Because after a few years of mild gardening I a) know they can't catch me (haha slowcoaches) and b) they are good for compost

[the-busy-ghost]

Constantly forget that the ceiling and windows are lower in the upstairs room, and think I finally know what people over six feet feel like

[membermentmania]

August 4th, 8:37-10:32pm

“Wendy, you really should tell them.” 

Wendy looked at her, silently pleading. “I only told you because I know you’ll keep it to yourself.” 

Tammy sighed. “What if something happens to me or I can't come out with you one night?“ 

“I was fine before. I’ll probably be fine again. I just need to get through this.”

Tammy frowned. She hated this. Wendy’s mark was darkening at a much faster rate than before the night they’d met with the boys. “Do you at least want to talk about it?” 

“What?” 

“You’re doing this to yourself. Can you at least tell me what’s going on in your head?” she tried. 

“Nothing.” Tammy gave her a look. “I just-It’s all so much. Like, between school, and the fact that I can’t stand up to my parents, and the angels, and this stuff with the boys? I feel like I’m falling behind in every part of my life and I don't know how to catch up. I feel like I’ve just been slowly marching towards either a life of gray-faced adulthood or my death, and I can’t tell which one’s worse anymore.” 

That hurt. But Tammy also knew really getting into this would probably be bad for both of them. So she tried a different approach that she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. But she was getting better at it. “Y’know, you’re definitely doing right in one department.” 

Wendy raised a brow. “What? That I’m smart?” she asked bitterly. 

“No, Wet-blanket Wendy,” she responded with a scoff. Wendy rolled her eyes. “You’re opening up to people. You were so closed off when we first met. And it’s, like, I see you making an effort to get closer to everyone. That’s a good thing.” 

Wendy looked at her with something she couldn’t really pinpoint. It wasn’t exactly relief, but it wasn’t exactly happiness either. There was a short moment of silence between the two. “Thank you for saying that.” She looked up at the sky. Tammy’s eyes trailed up. She wished there were stars here to silently cheer them on and see them off. Instead, it was just light pollution. “I really am trying.” 

Tammy looked back at her. She had this look of beautiful melancholy resting across her features as if it were a constant. Wendy reminded her of a garden statue. Something that was once carefully crafted remained weathered and tired from the rough passage through her teenage years. But still, she remained strong. Still, she was so incredibly beautiful. “I know you are. I see you.” 

She was in and out. One minute she was running, ignoring the mild scrapes of harsh wind searing into her skin. The next she was in bed. She opened her eyes, wincing at the harsh light. She screwed them shut, but noticed when the back of her eyelids suddenly got darker. “Sorry. Didn’t think you’d be up so soon.” The voice was melodic, but chilly. 

Tammy opened her eyes slightly, letting them fully flutter open when she realized the assault on her eyes was over with. She tried to sit up only for a wave of nausea to surge through her. The bed dipped down next to her and Wendy finally came into focus. “Wendy?” 

“You have a mild concussion,” Wendy responded in place of greeting. 

“Nothing about this feels mild,” Tammy groaned, letting her eyes fall shut again. “Why am I here?” 

“Because I have an essay due and Bebe, Marj, and Heidi wouldn’t know what to do if an emergency popped up.” 

“And you would?”

“Yeah.” 

“Really?” she muttered. “Thought people aren’t supposed to sleep after concussions.” 

“That’s incorrect. I’ve been checking your breathing and waking you up every few hours to ask you questions. Your fine to sleep. You should sleep.” 

Every few hours? “Shit, what time is it?” 

“Just after four.” 

Her eyes shot open and she looked at Wendy. She looked so tired. But she didn’t look annoyed or mad about this. Still, Tammy felt bad. Wendy was the only one in their group who really seemed to care about her grades and it was a school night. And she has an essay due. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.” 

She tried to sit up again and Wendy stopped her. “You’re fine, Tammy. You need to rest though.” 

“But I kept you up all night!” 

“It’s fine. I’m used to it.” 

Tammy made a face. “You’re used to all nighters?”

“Lotta work goes into valedictorian,” she responded tiredly.

She wasn’t sure why she asked this. But it came out. “Why do you do it? Y’know, with everything now. You’ve been a magical girl for what, like, two months?” 

Wendy shrugged. “It’s what’s expected of me, I guess.” 

“But is that what you want?” 

Wendy offered her a sad smile. “Sure.” 

“You shouldn’t do that.” Wendy tilted her head slightly. “I know I’m out of bounds here. We, like, just met. But you shouldn’t do things because that’s what other people expect of you. You should do things because that’s what you want to do.”

“Your head injury seems to 

Tammy wanted to take them all away from this. Somewhere far away. Perhaps the moon. Anywhere where they could all be free. No more magic. No more monsters. No more fighting to survive. 

Wendy’s eyes flitted over as a soft smile appeared. A quiet laugh bubbled out of her. “Don’t get all sappy on me.” 

Tammy rolled her eyes. “In your dreams, emo.” 

have made you much more social.”

“You’re kind of a bitch, huh?” 

Wendy looked at her with surprise. Tammy couldn’t even process the worry that she’d burned a bridge with a girl she’d known for less than a week. Her brain felt like it was turning into mush. But then something interesting happened. A laugh bubbled out of the raven-haired girl in front of her. Tammy furrowed her brows as more quiet laughs trickled out. Wendy politely covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry. I’m not laughing at you.” Everything felt hazy around the edges, but Tammy could see that smile clear as day. That was the first time she’d ever seen Wendy smile like that. “I just wasn’t expecting that.” Her memories of the rest of the night were blurry. But Tammy remembered how she felt after that night. She actually wanted to be friends with Wendy. 

“Wait, shut up.” 

Tammy silently pressed her relic to her forehead, transforming as they walked in silence. Gentle notes from violins and flutes carried through the night, conveying intense longing. It was quiet, but definitely nearby. “What song is that?” Tammy loved going out with Wendy because she always knew what song was being used as a lure. The others didn’t care, but Tammy always felt like classical music fit Wendy. 

And it was an interesting talent. After a few moments, Wendy could figure it out. 

“It’s the prelude from Tristan und Isolde.” 

She laughed quietly. “You’re such a nerd.” 

“I actually like this one,” Wendy responded with an eyeroll. 

“Okay, spit out some facts, music nerd.” 

“So this actually-” 

“What the fuck?” 

Tammy was ripped from her trance as she looked at the voice that was coming from the other side of the altar they were walking towards. She made a face. “The fuck are you guys doing here?” 

“Going out for a group fight,” Clyde responded happily. 

“Wanna join us?” 

Tammy glanced at Wendy to see her frowning slightly. “I really need purifiers. I can’t waste my magic if you guys are gonna hog all the rewards.” 

Clyde grabbed Kenny by the hand and circled carefully around the altar so they could speak face to face. The group of boys followed behind them.

“Hi, Tam. Hi, Wendy” Kenny greeted with a smile.

“Hi, Ken!” 

 “Okay, first of all. The fits are hot as fuck,” Clyde cut in. All three of them shot him a glare. He put his hands up. “In a very respectful, stylish choice way. I am not objectifying either of you.” 

“I swear to god, Clyde,” Tammy muttered. They looked at each other before laughing. 

“Anyways. Out of all of us, only two of us are really running low. And we have spares. We just do this as a whole group thing once every now and then for broship purposes. And we had a bit of a close call the other day.”

“Dude!” Craig interjected. 

[heartofspells]

How was Sirius with Harry in his low times after the trauma?

Oof. You're going right for the hurt, aren't you? But what am I if not a deliverer?

I very carefully avoided addressing this more than strictly necessary in the actual story itself. Because it's a difficult thing. How do you explain to a four-year-old, who's used to hugs and playing, wrestling, arms locking around legs, climbing all over you, that you can't stand to be touched by anyone anymore in a way that child will understand?

But here's another little outtake from At the Healing Edge of Broken, occurring sometime during chapter 10.

Cw: reference to mild, accidental hitting of Harry (but he's fine, it didn't hurt him), vague sense of depression, resistance to unwanted touch because of past trauma

(thank you so much to everyone for these. they could all be from the same person, but i don't care. please work my brain. let me live in this world for as long as possible. send all your questions, comments, musings to me. i will happily take them and hold them close)

Harry doesn't understand and Sirius can't explain. Lily and James both try, but Sirius can tell it doesn't catch or make any sense to the small boy, face still filled with confusion, eyes shifting to Sirius at odd moments.

They'd kept him away for a few days after it had happened. Sirius hadn't been consulted with the decision, but he knows his friends had thought it best. He thinks they were probably right judging by his reaction when Harry had finally returned and launched himself at Sirius where he'd been tucked into the corner of the sofa. Sirius had stiffened, arms flailing out wildly under the unexpected touch, having been drifting in a void and had not heard Harry entrance into the house.

Sirius had struck him, just a little, right in his side. Not enough to even really hurt, but it had been more than enough to cause Harry to retreat from him, eyes wide with startled shock, and guilt had welled so high inside Sirius, he'd nearly broken all over again from its crushing weight. Lily had checked him over as Sirius had watched from a distance, assuring Sirius Harry was more than fine, but it hadn't eased his hammering heart or coaxed the shriveling guilt from his body and soul.

But Harry, in the same way children always seem to move on from things so easily, most times, forgets soon enough. He wants to play, urges Sirius down to the floor with him, and Sirius goes when he can, when he's not sucked too far away from everything that matters most. He sprawls over the carpet with Harry as he always has, rolling cars about, teasing at Snuffles, making Harry giggle and tell him he's being silly, Padfoot. It warms Sirius, but eventually, Harry grows bored, wants to roll around, wrestle and tumble. He wants to touch, and Sirius can't.

He retreats with a mumbled apology, James watching from the doorway of the room, moving in to take Sirius' place with an ease Sirius knows is forced. He disappears to his room. He stays here a lot now, here or the back garden, his friends coax him back to the land of the living again. Because that's what this feels like, like some sort of limbo, a purgatory, if Sirius believed in such things. He's starting to, because he's stuck there, here. Can't escape. Voices of the damned scream constantly inside his head, so loud Sirius can't even begin to force them away.

Harry doesn't understand, maybe never will, and Sirius dearly hopes he never has to, that there's never a reason for his godson to look at this situation Sirius has found himself a part of, entrenched inside, and have even a notion of so that's what that was. He still searches Sirius out, urges him into play. He finds Sirius in his bedroom one afternoon while Sirius is waiting for dinner, for Remus to come, that wonderful distraction he craves and clings to like a man dying without oxygen until it's suddenly returning.

The boy climbs up onto the bed with sure movements, settling beside Sirius on its surface, staring up at the ceiling, Sirius watching him curiously. His expression is grave, green eyes pensive, small mouth twitching in deep thought.

"Hello, Padfoot," he says eventually, tone incredibly solemn for his four years. "Mummy says you're hurt again. Did you fall?"

Something in Sirius aches at the question, at the way Harry is still trying to make sense of the way things seem to have shifted around him. He shakes his head, still not moving it from gazing at his godson.

"No, Harry. I didn't fall."

Harry nods, looking a little more confused, mouth pinching up. "Where're you hurt? I can get my doctor bag, but Daddy said that won't work."

"Daddy's right, sprog," says Sirius quietly. "I wish he wasn't, but it won't work. But you can practice on my leg again sometime soon, just not today."

He expects Harry to brighten at the offering, but he doesn't, instead rolling to his side to face Sirius, his expression still far too dour for Sirius' liking.

"But if you're hurt, a doctor can fix it," argues Harry in growing frustration. "Mummy can take you to hospital. Kings can help you, make you feel better."

Sirius doesn't know what to do. What can he possibly say to calm the angry confusion mounting higher and higher in the boy beside him? He shifts to match Harry's position, gaze drifting over his frowning face, wanting to reach out and the lines away, knowing they have no right to be there or exist at all, Sirius the cause. He always is, for everyone, in everything. He can't escape it, no matter how hard he tries.

"Harry," he says on the breath of heavy sigh, "a doctor can't make this better." Sirius glances over him as Harry's face falls in front of him, and Sirius tries to find a way to explain. "Did you know there are different sorts of hurts?" Harry shakes his head, and Sirius tries to smile. "There's the type you can see, like when you hit your head on the table or scape up your knees sometimes, or like when I fell and injured my leg. Those are the types of hurt a doctor or mummies and daddies can fix. But there are other hurts, deeper ones. You can't see them with your eyes, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. They hurt your heart and your mind. And they hurt just as bad, sometimes more, but they aren't things that can be made better with a plaster and sweets. Does that make sense?"

Harry's eyes drop as he considers Sirius' words, his face pinching in further, mouth pulling at its corners. "What makes it better?" he finally asks, looking back up at Sirius.

Sirius' smile is sad, and he wishes desperately for it do be anything else. "I'm still trying to figure that out," he admits softly.

"Does Remus help?" And there's a bit of hope filling his green eyes now, shining a little, shifting Sirius' smile to something different, grateful. He's aware of how his godson feels about the other man, loving it when he comes round during the week, begging them not to leave when they do, Remus coaxing him from the house, the only one that's been successful so far.

"He's trying," says Sirius. "But it's not just him. Mummy and Daddy help as well, and so do you, just by being yourself."

"I do?" questions Harry, amazement filling him, drawing him from his well of confusion.

"Of course you do," attests Sirius adamantly, and before he can stop himself or think too much about what he's doing, he pressing forward, wrapping Harry up in gentle arms, pulling the boy close to him. "You always have, because I love you. You, Harry Potter, are one of the best things I've ever had in my life."

Sirius can feel the boy's smile against the skin of his neck where his nestled firmly. He squirms in his arms, a wonderful, joyful sound emerging from him, and Sirius thinks this is okay, this touch, this hold. He can do this. With Harry, he's okay.