It Doesn't Take Magic

It didn’t matter that Keiran knew the truth now, that everyone around her knew that she had magic and could use it. She hardly cared though; the dishes would not be done with magic, unless her son or the man she essentially considered a son decided to do them. But then, Keiran hated dishes, and Bridget never asked Elliot to do them. That wasn’t to say that they would refuse if asked, either of them. But standing around and doing the dishes was something so easy, so mindless, that she could just spend the time pondering the day, or thinking through any issues that had come her way. As strange as it sounded, she actually loved it. It wasn’t a burden at all.

The clink of a dish to her right drew her attention, and Bridget looked up to find her son watching her with a slight frown on his face. Pausing only for a moment, she waited for him to come to terms with whatever it was he wanted to say – although she had an idea – rather than prodding him.

“You were right.” He grumbled finally, looking down at the plate he had set next to her.

“And how do those words taste coming out of your mouth?” She asked, trying to keep the smile off of her face.

“Like vinegar.”

Keiran’s expression was one of distaste, but it wasn’t lost on his mother how very like his father he was. The man knew when he had been beaten, and even though he didn’t like it, he refused to insult those he respected and cared about by failing to admit his faults. It was something he would need in the future, of that Bridget was sure. She couldn’t pin down exactly why, or when, but she could just feel it in her gut.

“At least you can accept it.” She offered gently.

“I just missed it.” Keiran replied, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms. Eventually, he would have to floo home and pretend that he didn’t feel any different about teaching than he had upon starting that first day of classes. But for now he could admit it. At least until Millie figured out that something was wrong.

“It won’t last forever, hun,” Bridget warned, taking a scrubber to the cup in her hand.

“I know. I don’t mean it when I say this, but I kind of wish I hadn’t ever thought of doing this. I mean, the kids need it, and I wouldn’t take it away from them. But it’s like… I’ll leave here knowing that I only have until the Ministry takes us down, and after that I won’t get my old job back, I won’t be able to get any sort of position so long as the Ministry has a say in things. And Merlin knows they always do and always will.”

“I thought you were going to write?”

“I may,” He nodded. “I’ve thought about textbooks. It sounds completely stupid, but it’s almost like I’m still the one teaching them. Almost.”

“And that’s something.” Bridget reminded him, shutting off the water to properly face her son. After gesturing to the dishrag and having it passed to her, she dried her hands before returning the cloth to the countertop. “You know full well that you are doing these kids more good than you ever expected to do for anybody. You wouldn’t ever admit to it, but I know that you just wanted someone to need your help.”

“Dad never did.” Keiran admitted, shocked at himself for even speaking the words. “I just- I wanted to be walking down the street one day and have an old student say that I had changed them, or directed them. Something. It sounds kind of selfish for a professor, though. It shouldn’t be about me.”

“But professors don’t just teach what’s in the book, Keiran. They teach life and attitude and manners. They project the authority figure that the students should wish to be like – one that cares about what those beneath them think. One that wants their colleagues or students or friends to succeed.”

Keiran’s expression was one of surprise, but also one of realization. He ran a hand through his hair, and Bridget winked at him before turning back to her dishes, lifting the faucet handle and letting the water race down into the sink once more. Letting out a small chuckle, Keiran pressed a kiss to Bridget’s cheek before calling out a goodbye and moving into the living room to head home.

A pleased smile lit her face as she returned to her activity, letting her thoughts slip to the students sleeping upstairs. Well, hopefully they were sleeping. Bridget couldn’t blame them if they were up chatting or wondering after their fate. She would have been, too. She had been the same way thirty years ago, when she had been that drastic Gryffindor her house taught her to be. After a while, though, the fear ebbed and the curiosity of her potential new life took over.

As lost as she was in the thoughts, Bridget failed to realize that the water ran while her hands stopped moving. Nothing was visible outside of the window that sat before her, but her eyes stared into the dark, anyway.

It was one of those rare smouldering days that gave leave to stuffy, intolerable evenings that riddled a persisting heat into the bodies of those resigned to work within the atmosphere, one that no amount of cool drinks or freezing showers could dislodge. In the end, the t-shirt that had grown uncomfortably sticky around the body of Baldric Wood had been abandoned, stuffed into his rucksack that was slung on one shoulder as he ducked back out into the sunshine, a white paper bag hanging loosely in his fingers, the sound of potions gurgling against their glass sides and pills shaking this way and that in their own little canisters accompanying the cacophony of sound made up of the clanging change in Baldric’s back pocket and the tapping keychain hanging from the zip on his bag.

St. Mungo’s would never be a place he’d be used to, especially not when he entered into the hospital for his own sake, not his mother’s. The morning and most of the early afternoon, leading into the evening, had been spent on an examination table getting prodded and poked at before being taken out into one of the gardens only to have Quaffles thrown at him to test his reactions. Baldric had survived on that front but what they were taking note of wasn’t his ability to catch but what happened to him after physical activity. Needless to say, there was plenty to write down. He mostly noticed the way his hands shook and the manner in which he struggle to twist and bend his arms or lift them at all. He could feel the eyes of the stoic, solemn healers on him and he said nothing. Felt nothing. Couldn’t muster it within himself to take their silent criticism. It wasn’t his fault.

The young man had been discharged again though his personal healer – Jeff Houseman – was truly considering not doing so. It had been months since Baldric had actually gone into St. Mungo’s and had an honest, candid talk to someone about, well, himself. The usual things were rattled off: drink less, quit smoking. The latter was something he was now being forced to do with the healer writing out a formal instruction. They needed, apparently, to test him without the nicotine dependency. Apparently, given the latter stages of puberty which were almost null and finished now, they hadn’t gotten any decent results as since he’d been fifteen or sixteen, Baldric had smoked. Everything they had one him from that point onwards was based upon his body with nicotine in his system. They wanted it out, totally and completely – at least before he turned twenty.

What they’d left him with, also, was a litany of potions which he had to start taking again. They all had familiar names, along with the pills whose little bright purple and yellow blobs were old friends of Baldric’s. Suddenly he was placed back into his younger self, a boy who was fed things to keep him level, stable, able to play sport. They put him into it because it did the job of a lot of the pills, got the blood pumping and all the rest of it. He played less sport now, something he’d also been instructed to rectify with the casual running to be dropped in favour of him picking up football again – and regularly, too – the running would return when he could show he’d do it religiously. On top of that, also, he’d changed. Some things didn’t do the trick anymore, or did, they didn’t know. He didn’t go to see them enough to be sure. But they had a game plan now. Baldric didn’t feel better for it but somehow it assuaged whatever fears played havoc with him during the small hours of the night.

He returned to the Hayes’ home in good time but he’d missed dinner, having elected to have a cup of coffee and a sandwich at a café in London, not moving from his place there until the sun had set fully and darkness began to rule the roost. He shut the door behind himself, announcing his entrance, and pulled his feet out of his shoes. Then he padded into the kitchen, pausing briefly upon seeing Bridget stood by the sink but he entered regardless, putting his things down on the kitchen island, unzipping his bag to retrieve his shirt which he quickly pulled over his head for decency’s sake. He’d sleep in nothing but boxers later, he promised himself, already beginning to feel uncomfortable with the cotton against his skin.

“I’m sorry I missed dinner,” Baldric expressed sincerely, sitting himself down on one of the stools. He dropped his rucksack down onto the floor by the handle but he kept the bag of hospital goodies on the table, his lips turning down as he opened it up again, taking out the instructions Jeff had written out for him. It was a reminder of everything they’d talked about as well as the when and where aspects of taking the potions and other titbits as though Baldric needed reminding. There were a few new additions to the menu, however, which absurdly, cynically, made him a little excited.

Baldric’s hand felt for the group of vials, kept together with an elastic band in their box, that were old, familiar friends. He unclipped the box and pursed his lips a little, his fingers touching at the glass, his gaze inspecting the bright pink contents. He swallowed, tucking the vials back into the box before setting them down on the side. Out came the rest until for some inexplicable reason, his portion of the counter was covered before him and the bag deflated sadly.

“God,” he murmured, turning around a conical vial of lime green potion. That was for tremors if he remembered rightly. The majority of them had to do with internal things, though, and because of the long-term disuse of many of them, the healers were astounded to find Baldric could walk, let alone sustain a cigarette habit and a semi-normal relationship with another human being – especially in the physical capacity Baldric had been forced to admit he enjoyed. Regardless of his assurances that he was fine, they knew quite a bit more than he did on the health front and the internal treatment needed to resume. If it didn’t, the healers were quite forthcoming about their anxiety about the ‘what ifs’ at the end of that sentence.

“Did you know that the Cruciatus Curse wasn’t made ‘unforgivable’ until 1717? It was after the Wizards’ Council actually became the Ministry of Magic.” Baldric fiddled with the vial stopper. “People still use it though, willy nilly. They used it on my mum… the Death Eaters, that is. While I was still… like, while she was pregnant with me.”

Baldric didn’t know entirely where this was coming from but he had felt it building up within him. Bridget was not a woman who he felt scared to talk to. In fact, her kindly face and gentle disposition made her a woman he desperately wanted to talk to. He was loath to let this avenue be pursued by the healers. He didn’t want to be someone they worried over. He was not the child that couldn’t walk properly anymore. He wasn’t the child whose speech was still slurred because of the infirmity of the muscles around his mouth. He wasn’t the child they had assumed wouldn’t live further than five or, if he did, never show magic. He was fine. He was normal. He was human. But of course, just like his mother who, equally as stubborn believed nothing was wrong, he was deteriorating too in that slow way they’d always threatened he would. He should have taken heed from the example she set but the arrogance in him was too much. The desire to just be normal was overriding. And now, it was having the opposite effect.

“They used to laugh and say they didn’t even know how I was alive. I wasn’t really sure either for a long time but it was these things…” Baldric lifted up the conical vial, inspecting it with a heavy sigh. “Sort of, helped… I guess. She got the Welsh Green Itch… and it, mucked her up. My mum, that is. It made everything worse. I mean, I got it too but I was still… I dunno, still taking these then I think. Stopped after when she really started to go… and now it’s like, we’re just waiting and waiting and the healers are beginning to worry about me because I’m now sort of… the same age she was, I guess and they’re scared and I’m terrified. I dunno what I’m going to do if it’s the same scenario for me. I mean, I know it’s not. I feel healthy but everything’s just been so bad now for so long that I’m beginning to wonder whether the icing on the cake of this terrible year would be that no, the muscle wasting is setting in, the erratic behaviour’s back and here to stay. My nerves are shot. The body is dying. That’s kind of … I dunno.”

Baldric rubbed a hand across his face and began to shove the things back into the bag. He needed to tell Ben. It had been nagging at him nearly as long as the need to take the man with him to see Alicia had been. But there was reluctance there for both of them, Ben too eager to indulge the part of Baldric that didn’t want to go at all. And Baldric, he was too eager to give up, too. Plus, there was the whole debacle of the pair of them being married, crucially not to each other. Nights of sneaking in and out of the flat were beginning to grate on Baldric’s nerves in a more emotional sort of way, not physically like the shaking hands post-Quaffle catching activity did. He was sick of it. He wanted to be free of the infernal law. He wanted his lover. He wanted to be able to explain on his own terms. He was desperate to. He wanted to be with that man. But life was now really getting in the way and Baldric was losing the good fight. He found it difficult to roll over and get up and face lessons. He couldn’t go on living in limbo land like this much longer. He couldn’t bear it.

“The other half … he, uh, doesn’t know.” Baldric pulled absently at his neck. “Stuff has kind of ruined everything and I’m … I dunno. I don’t even know what to say or what to do anymore and being here is… stupidly weird. I mean, it’s lovely, you’ve got a great home and your son is a brilliant teacher but I don’t’ know whether I’m coming or going and potions aside, Mrs Hayes… I don’t know what to do with myself. I just want to move back in with Ben and resume my life, do you know what I mean? Like… I’m not cut out for this. Because I can’t … I don’t want to be waiting forever. I’m not as patient as I’d like to think but I’m so done with sneaking about. I’d love to go on a date. Dinner. Movies. Walk in the park. Coffee before we go home. Like, that’s what I’d love but I can’t because this stupid law has ruined everything and now, it seems, I’m to be drugged up to keep level and sensible, too.”

Baldric put the vial down roughly, the sound of the glass hitting the granite top rumbling around the room. He rubbed his hands across his face again and growled into his palms, unable to focus his anger. It was muted, though. Weary. Weary anger. There wasn’t a lot left in the tank and he needed advice. What was he supposed to do?

“Do I try to make this work or do I just need to look after my own interests for the minute … finish my N.E.W.Ts. Apply to unis, all the rest of it? I could really, really use your help.”

And there it was, the whole terrible tale laid out before him. That was what there was to it. Already it was too much and he hadn’t even touched on his father. Oliver was now something of a nonentity though. There were bigger, more pressing matters at hand. But even without the involvement of his father, the situation was far, far from redeemable.

Bridget's thoughts halted abruptly at the entrance of the blonde, and she turned her head to see him in a state of distress that none of the students who had actually become werewolves had experienced. The water was shut off immediately, hands dried on the nearby towel, and elbows were set on the counter to listen as he spoke. Interrupting would have only startled him and made his thoughts disjointed, his words careful. So she listened and waited and nodded as called for. In the end, she found herself moving to make her ever-brewing hot chocolate; that potion looked and sounded unpleasant, and surely the homemade wonder that worked any season would assist in calming him.

When he directed his comments at someone new, though, Bridget looked at his over her shoulder and lifted an eyebrow curiously. It wasn't the 'he' that captured her attention, but rather the title Baldric had given this man. 'The Other Half' was some pretty serious stuff, and she couldn't fathom what had made Baldric afraid to share his potentially dark future with this man he so obviously loved. It didn't make sense until Baldric finished speaking, and Bridget sighed along with her nod of belated understanding.

Turning back to her drink making, Bridget let a frown take over briefly before she began, lifting one shoulder apologetically. "I can't say I know exactly what you're going through. Where your future could be set by outside forces, I determined my own. My husband, he helped me to... Well, it sounds grim, so I'll qualify it. My family didn't approve of him, and decided to become all sorts of protective and messy, so I asked Aiden to help me fake my death. It worked, somehow, for he was truly a veritable potions master for someone who worked out of his garage. But either way, I changed my name, dropped magic on the whole, and took up in this house with him."

She nearly let it escape that it was a shame that he couldn't do as she had done to be with Bentley. But that would require planning on both sides somehow, and would undoubtedly hurt more than her own 'passing' had her family. Or, she figured at least.

"What interests me about your story," she continued, hoping to brush away from her topic choice, "is that you don't trust your love with this information. With your fears. Your University aspirations. Why don't you think he will support you? If he loves you, he would, you know. Without being asked. Without judgement or sarcasm or anything like that. I obviously don't know the man, but he must be something special to have garnered such descriptions as the ones you have for him."

Pulling the lot from the stove, Bridget turned off the flame and set about gathering cups from the cupboard, which were not still potentially wet from his having distracted her. She obviously wouldn't mind washing them later, after all. "Now, as for your questions there at the end... Would it be possible for you to attend and test and whatnot while still seeing him? It sounds like he isn't for this law, either. And it seems like, if the sneaking but includes him, he's not quite interested in whoever he's stuck with that makes it a mess for you. I mean, I know about Nessa obviously, but there's got to be someone on his end, for he cannot visit you here with the wards up. That leaves sneaking round his." The cocoa was poured into the mugs, one set before Baldric, and Bridget let the rest sit to cool while she continued so she could store it later.

"Dear, you've got to consider whether or not you think he can wait. How long he can stand to be without you, just as you are unhappy without him. Even if he loves you, if you abandon him full stop, he won't know what's gone wrong. Won't know how to set it right. And with you out of range here, what's he supposed to do about it? I think deciding your fate with him is just as important as deciding your career path at this point. You need him, whether or not you want to have to discuss your illness. You think not telling him is a good idea? What happens if you set sick or hurt and he can't figure what to do about it? If I'm right about him, which I feel I am, that man will lose his mind over worry if you leave him out."

As appealing as it was, somehow Baldric doubted that he’d get away with faking his own death. He couldn’t help but admire Bridget, though. She was someone who had gone out, decided the route she was going to take, she did it and she’d been happy ever since until her husband was prematurely snatched away from her. There was one hell of a fighter in the woman who was calmly listening to him, making up two mugs of hot chocolate. He wondered at all if anyone really realised, if anyone actually took into account that she went against her whole family, her whole life in part and set up new versions of both for herself and of her own volition. She’d done it because it was right for her and he couldn’t believe the incredibly amount of bravery that it must have taken. He didn’t envy the choice but he did envy her bravery.

She went on and he listened to and absorbed every word. As she spoke he felt shame well up within him and he lowered his eyes to the potion he was rolling around in his fingers. He didn’t understand why he didn’t just tell Ben but he supposed that it was because he didn’t want to talk about the heavy stuff because he knew that eventually it would wind back to him being full of hate for Rose and full of frustration that he didn’t get to be in his home, that he missed rolling over and laying on Ben and he hated the little bed he had and he was just pissed off all the time. It would always come back to that because he couldn’t help it. It was what he was principally upset about – he didn’t give a tinkers toss about the fact that the Healers were convinced he was a ticking time bomb of whatever, what upset him was that he couldn’t be with Ben. The rest didn’t matter so it was that which he chose to air.

He nodded when she finished, curling his hands absently around the mug, revelling in the fact that it soothed the tension in his joints and made his fingers feel more like, well, fingers instead of brittle, fleshy rods that were due to break at any one moment. He loathed the St. Mungo’s visit not just because they never went well but also because when he left he felt as though he really was as bad off as they claimed. He felt all shaken and not at all stirred and worried constantly that maybe he wasn’t okay – maybe he was ill. Normal run-of-the-mill days just didn’t turn that option up for him but they always did and it did scare him into wanting to take the potions again but he just didn’t know where, when or how he was going to tell Ben. It was a horrendously long story and he didn’t want to go there, not really. He just wanted to focus on the happy things but Bridget was right – it wasn’t necessarily always going to be that way.

Baldric brought the cup to his lips and blew over the surface before taking a sip, closing his eyes as the warmth of the chocolate spread through him. He felt more or less instantly better and wondered if there was something else Bridget was putting in the drink to make it taste good but he found he didn’t care. He felt better in that moment than he had done all day. He drank it heartily, even though it began to burn him a bit and he set the mug back down with care, picking up the potion vial to put it back with the others.

“I suppose I’m just not … it’s not that I don’t trust him and it’s not that I don’t think he’ll support me because he will but he … I don’t want to burden him with my crap when we’re trying to steal a few happy moments, y’know? I really don’t want to ruin anything with all of this because I… it’s not normally such a bad thing and it’s not bad it’s just I’ve not been looking after myself so I’m stupid and I’ve made it bad and I don’t want him to worry, I guess. But you’re right, of course… he needs to know.”

Baldric played dejectedly with the cup, spinning it this way and that, watching the cocoa move inside. He brought his arm up and put his elbow on the top, resting his cheek in his palm as he brought the cocoa back to his lips. A little dribble of it slipped from the side of his mouth and he wiped it away hastily on the cuff of his shirt before putting down the cup again. He tapped his fingers against the table as he thought and he looked at her hopefully, a little smile playing at his lips.

“I’m not going to go,” he told her. “I don’t know what I’d do with myself without him but it’s just… hard, I guess. It’s lonely here like this and I guess I … well, I don’t fancy Nessa obviously but I just think like… I’m terrified stupid that maybe I’ll go back one day and he’ll say he’d rather be with Rose and that’ll kill me – never mind this,” he gestured to the vials. “So I guess I’m just … I don’t want to tell him and for this to keep going on like this and for it to get harder and harder and for him to one day think ‘oh shit’ – sorry,” he swallowed embarrassedly, bringing the cup to his lips to mask his scarlet cheeks.

“I…” Baldric brought the cup between his hands. “I don’t want him to wake up and think that this is too hard like this and it would be somehow easier if it was just him and Rose because it was the way the Ministry intended it to be and Nessa’s got all of her drama with whoever and whatever so she’ll never be on her own and I’m not, I don’t want to be part of her life because it’s not my place but if she wants me I’m there but the thing is that I really think I’m going to wind up alone because what if this all just gets too much and I stop being worth it somehow. I wouldn’t blame him but … but still. By giving up I guess I’m pre-empting the kind of inevitable.”

Baldric ran his hand over his face and down his neck, squeezing at it aimlessly. He pushed the cup with the tips of his fingers, sending it a little way across the surface because the desire to throw it in a fit of frustration was suddenly too tempting for him to overlook so he clasped his hands together fiercely and dropped them between his legs, keeping them there, determined to curb his temper. He had a feeling he’d sleep well that night if nothing else. The emotional turmoil was, as ever, as good a sleep potion as any.

“I’ve got to submit two more essays,” he said, returning to the problem of university. “On top of it all I think I’m afraid about that because no one upon no one likes History of Magic because of Binns and I… well, I love it. I guess I don’t think after everything I could stand the teasing.” He smiled despite himself, giving no credit to his words. He wouldn’t mind the teasing really. He’d batter Ben right back and retort that business was boring, that history was more interesting than meetings with suited bods but he’d probably end up confessing that the idea of Ben asserting his boardroom masculinity was an unrelentingly sexy image for Baldric so perhaps business wasn’t all boring.

“I think I am going to end up going to this London one. It’s really nice. I went the other week and the course is great and aims to get you into teaching from the word go so I’m kind of dumped with Goblin War research and then sent somewhere to lecture so… yeah,” he smiled, drawing the cup back to him. “But yeah… I mean, that’s the only thing going right. The rest of it I’m not even sure. I’m just scared, Bridget. I just … I don’t know … I feel eighteen, y’know? I’m so out of my depth I have no idea what to do. I’m not in control, I’m rolling my car, I’ve crashed my boat into the pier and I don’t know how to hit the brakes.”

He brought his hand down to his eyes again and he rubbed up underneath his glasses, growling frustrated once more into his palm. He was lost. He was so unbelievably lost. And he had no idea what to say to her – let alone Ben – so it all came out at once, useless and left to hang awkwardly in the air.

“Of course he needs to know,” Bridget agreed gently, watching Baldric toy with the mug she had offered. “What do you think he’d do when he found out down the road because you’re in the hospital? You can’t imagine that he would take that well?”

Bridget was making a lot of assumptions, and though she knew that, something in her gut told her that she wasn’t actually that far from the mark. Whoever this Ben guy was, Bridget couldn’t believe that he had gotten Baldric to this point without being serious in return. But she swallowed her desire to tell him so, instead going for the comforting route.

“Let me tell you about a woman I know, Bae. She met her husband just after he had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, and she knew full well that Marshall was going to die. They graduated from university together and she asked him to marry her, even though she would only have a limited amount of time with him.” Bridget paused, a sorrowful expression taking her for a moment before she could continue. “Marshall lived six more months, and the woman never regretted any of it. Because she loved him and making him go it alone would never have been acceptable. Never. She always told him that there deserves to be an impact on the world when a good person goes. Your guy, he’s obviously willing to be the one who handles whatever happens in the end.

“People don’t love because it’s easy, Baldric. They love because they don’t want to go through the bad parts of life alone. Because they need someone to need them. If he needs you, don’t take away his chance to take care of you. Especially if he’s not used to doing that for others. That would be a huge step for both of you.”

The topic rolled around to school again, but Bridget couldn’t quite blame him. With so much going on it was undoubtedly hard to focus. She had been the same way after her first son had disappeared and she and Aiden were supposed to somehow understand why or what to do with Keiran. The possibility of him leaving them had been incredibly painful, and left Aiden unsure how to get close, and Bridget unsure how to let go. So Keiran had turned out a little wary and a little concerned, though it seemed like people couldn’t help but like him for it in the end.

“That’s because you are eighteen, darling.” Reaching over, she brushed back his hair and offered a smile. “I think… that you should take up another weekend with Ben and just ask him if he would be able to handle it if things went badly for you, medically. He’ll probably take the idea badly, at which point you can explain – or work yourself into it, which ever works – and tell him that his reaction to your getting hurt would be the same one you’d have if he chose someone over you. That would probably get the point across,” she added with a knowing look.