Pills and Potions

-Written for Round One of The Iron Throne Competition-

"I want what every child wants . . . a mum to hug me and a dad to tell me it'll all be okay."

(*)(*)(*)

It's a drop of liquid gold running down his tongue, scorching his throat as the magic dissolves through his being.

He feels it tingling through his fingers and toes, the little drop of gold, causing his heart to beat erratically fast, his vision blurring as every tiny sound seems to be in slow-motion. Drawls and blurs surround him, he's lost to the world – they're there and around him, but he isn't . . . he's lost in a place that only he knows.

Two people are standing before him, their forms opalescent, shifting like mist as he reaches out to touch them. His fingers pass through their shimmering silhouettes, grasping nothing but air as two sad smiles look down on him.

He knows they're stars and that they're watching over him – he just wishes he could see them in a form that wasn't a picture or memory.

The second drop burns a hot path down his throat and suddenly they're solid and he can touch them, his hands closing around their wrists. He's laughing and they're laughing and for a moment, it's all going to be okay.

The potion burns off to soon and he stuffs his fingers into his pockets, searching for a few galleons with which to buy another drop.

He can't find any, even though he's sure his godfather had filled his money-pouch just that very morning.

(*)(*)(*)

"Why do you have these vials, Teddy?" asked James, fourteen-year-old curiosity brimming in his pubescent voice as he holds up a trio of the tiny, crystal containers. He curses under his breath, wondering how his godbrother has managed to discover traces of what he's been hiding for so very long.

"They're just some stuff from work," he answers, hoping his response will be enough to let the kid drop the subject. He's an auror after all, and he's always bringing new trinkets home that he can't keep in the office or in evidence.

Perhaps, had James not been the son of the Head-Auror, he may have been convinced.

"But Teddy," they boy protests, "dad said we aren't to touch these things." Teddy bites back the urge to slap his brother – he wonders where the horrifying notion has come from – and scoops the vials from his clenched hands.

"I'm working a case in narcotics," he declares, hoping to finally dissuade James from prodding in matters that don't concern him, "This is just evidence I've brought home to do some tests on."

Miraculously, James buys the excuse, shoddy as it is, and clamps his mouth shut.

Perhaps he can see the fire burning in Teddy's eyes.

(*)(*)(*)

Colours. . .

The world's made of them. Sometimes they're red, especially when people are angry. Other times they're purple or blue or yellow, orange and green.

Most often though, it's a blur as there's just too much for one abstract shade to symbolise it all. When he's in his world of colours, a place where the world can't get to him and knock him down, he can see them.

He can speak to them.

The world's fading, becoming monochrome and painful again, so he tips back his head and lets the droplet slip across his tongue – ignoring the fiery burn.

He doesn't quite know what's in it – a splash of Felix Felicis, a few millilitres of Amortentia – a spoonful of the Elixir to Induce Euphoria. Teddy isn't sure what else goes into making the golden teardrops.

He just knows that they're the only thing that lets him see them.

(*)(*)(*)

"Teddy!" she yelled, strawberry-scented breath washing over his face and breaking him from his trance, "snap out of it!"

"Leave me alone, Vic," he mumbles incoherently, his voice thick and sluggish as the blood in burning veins. He hates this part of the blessing, when his body is trying to assimilate itself back to the real world.

It's simply the curse that comes after.

"You said it was just one time, Teddy, it's been six," she pleads, "please . . . please, stop doing it."

All that registers is that she's trying to take away his escape – attempting to seize his one source of seeing his parents, happy and alive as they should be.

He's never thought that she'll be the one to deny him happiness.

"You need to leave," he snaps, not regretting the harshness in his tone.

"Teddy . . . please . . . please," she begs, her cries falling on deaf ears because he hates people trying to take what little he has. He's an orphan in every sense of the word, no parents, no siblings, no true family to speak off.

"Get. Out. Victoire."

(*)(*)(*)

He doesn't remember his first time under the influence of the golden tears. It's lost in the haze of the not so distant past.

He feels hollow . . . empty – there isn't much left within him other than his illusions of a life forgone by chance. It's not as if he's stronger than the tears, it's just that he's missed his mum and dad for so long that he can't give up the chance to see them again.

Teddy sighs as he searches his empty pockets, desperate for one more drop of the precious liquid. It's everything he's ever needed, a substance that can bring his stars back to earth where they belong.

Shivers running through his body, he gives up and heads home, hoping that he can glean a final drop from one to phials he's drained. He wishes that his world hadn't come to this but at the same time, he's happy that at least some wishes come true.

There's a telescope sitting on his bedside window, staring at the stars that are his parents. Reaching below the sill, he gropes around and extricates a tiny bottle, empty.

Or is it?

He sticks his tongue into the vial, using his metamorphmagus tricks to narrow the organ so that it fits, and he licks at the barest sheen of liquid gold that coats the base. It burns like lava, but then it's cooled and he settles back with a look of utter contentment on his face.

Her hands slip across his shoulders as she settles down beside him, and he rests his head on her shoulder, smiling at the sight of her bubblegum pink hair and heart-shaped face.

"I miss you mum," he whispers, wondering why all she does is stroke his face and look at him, sadness gleaming in her eyes.

(*)(*)(*)

"Harry . . . you should have called," he whimpers at the door, trying his hardest not to let the older man realise that his father –Remus – is watching them both from the couch.

His godfather's got an ugly scowl on his face as he wordlessly pushes past him, sending him stumbling backwards. His fingers shiver slightly as his dad begins to fade, the arrival of his boss, mentor, and godfather serving to sober him into a more lucid state.

"You're tripping," Harry states, not looking at him. Rather, he's glaring at an empty vial upon the table, the telltale golden sheen giving away what it truly is.

"Harry, please," he begs, fear being the only emotion running through his veins as he pleads, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he hopes his godfather can forgive him.

"How long," Harry says, coldly, clinically. Teddy's hands tremble, he doesn't know how long it's been – just a few months . . . hopefully.

"Not long," he stutters, unsure of himself, flinching at the rage in Harry's eyes when the older man whirls to face him.

"Why?" Harry's voice is barely controlled, but there's a sliver of understanding in it that Teddy clings too.

"I promise, it's important," he mumbles, whole body shaking like a leaf as Harry grabs him by the collar and lifts him off the ground, slamming him into the wall and holding him there.

"Why?" he repeats.

"I just wanted to see them again," Teddy cries, ignoring the throbbing pain in the back of his skull and the tears trickling from his eyes, "You never talk about them, nobody does. Even Nana wouldn't tell me about them because it hurt her so much. I just wanted to know my parents."

The look of revulsion seems to fade from Harry's face, but he's taking deep breaths and this indicates to Teddy –who's known the man all his life – that he's still angry. Very angry.

"Please, don't take them away from me."

"You know that I have to."

(*)(*)(*)

The room is small, barely large enough for him to pace and all that's been provided is a single bed, the mattress threadbare. There isn't anything else; he isn't even allowed to go to the bathroom by himself.

There's always a Healer watching him, he knows that, he can feel their gaze through the left wall. He's pretty sure it isn't a wall though, not really, it's probably a large window that's been glamoured.

His body aches and writhes, he's pleading for someone – anyone – to just give him one more drop. He just wants to say goodbye, that's all – he misses his mum and dad more than anything else and he just wants to see them one last time.

He's covered in sweat, the room is blurring, he doesn't know if this is hell or withdrawal or perhaps a bitter mixture of the two. A part of him hates it – a stronger part welcomes it.

(*)(*)(*)

There's a mirror before him and it looks magnificent. Strange words are spelled across it, written in a language he just doesn't understand and he wonders why his godfather would hide this beautiful, probably antique, mirror in the attic.

Staring, his eyes widen as two people come to stand on either side of his reflection and he feels his heart throb, harder and harder, as he recognises the woman, pink haired and smiling, and the man, scarred, world-weary, yet with a grin that's brighter than the heavens.

He reaches out to touch them, and feels the cold glass of the mirror, and it sinks in that they're just another illusion. Sinking to his knees with his hands still on the image of his mother's, he feels the first teardrops splash onto his knees

That night, he finds himself in Knockturn Alley, drinking in a bar he can't remember, with people he can't remember.

The tears are still falling – only they're made of gold.

(*)(*)(*)

He's standing on the sidewalk outside St. Mungo's, unsure of where to go now that he's finally 'clean' – that's what the Healers say at any rate. He can't go back to his apartment – the lease has long since expired whilst he's been recovering. He doesn't want to go to Grimmauld Place or The Burrow, where he knows they'll take him in with the thoughts of his indiscretions in the back of their minds.

Unsure of himself, he settles on the curb to think, cursing himself for letting himself slide into hell without even trying to hold onto heaven. It's all his fault, he reckons, and his parents are probably ashamed of his behaviour.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and he looks up, his eyes widening in disbelief as he catches sight of her smile and green Healer's robes. She sits beside him after a moment and slips an arm over his shoulders, just staying with him and letting hope resurface.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, as Victoire brushes his hair out of his eyes.

"I know."

"Can I ever make it up to you?"

"Yes . . . Just let me help you."

He wonders if perhaps he's being a leach by agreeing, especially after being such a git to her in the past. But he nods anyway – because he realises he isn't afraid of her judgement.

Victoire isn't a pseudo-family, he realises as she helps him to his feet, she is his family.

(*)(*)(*)

Prompts: Genre – Angst; Word – Hollow; Object – Telescope; Emotion – Fear; Dialogue – "I promise, it's important."

Also Written for the Greek Mythology Mega-Prompt Challenge: Dionysus (Write about Substance Abuse)

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