I heard there’s this #WIPitgood thing going around where we all post WIPs! This is a WIP I had from ages ago, based on a tumblr post. Cannot remember for the life of me who posted it, just that it had the idea of Jack being secretly in the Harry Potter fandom and writing this mammoth fic that’s the my immortal of this universe. It’s actually way longer than I thought it would be? Enjoy!
Tw: therapy, discussion of overdose, Bitty hasn’t read Harry Potter.
“Do you ever think about, like, the Big Questions?” Shitty asked, staring at Jack’s ceiling with bloodshot eyes.
“What questions?” Jack asked idly.
“The big ones, y’know? Where is God? Why-Why does the universe exist?“ Shitty threw his arms out, reaching up. "Do pigeons have feelings? Who… the fuck… wrote Wizarding Sports: An Analytical Narrative?”
Jack paused. “Excuse me?” He turned.
“Who wrote… wait. Waaaaait.” Shitty scrambled to prop himself up, squinting in Jack’s direction. “You haven’t heard of Wizarding Sports: An Analytical Narrative?”
Jack opened his mouth, then paused.
“Brah. Braaaah.” Shitty’s head tipped backwards, thudding against Jack’s comforter. “But you are like. Obsessed with the Potter! You are so out of touch. Everyone’s heard of Wsaan.” Jack had no idea how Shitty just pronounced that.
“Everyone?” Jack’s eyebrows creeped toward his hairline.
“Yeah. It’s like- This huuuuuge fic. Huuuuuuge, brah.” Shitty spread his arms, eyes wide, nodding slightly.“But, get this, it’s about the history of sport. How Quidditch was invented and shit. How weird is that? Who wrote that? And it’s like, uber detailed and researched and- Who would care enough about sports, and- and history, and Harry Potter to….”
Shitty trailed off, staring at Jack. His eyes narrowed. Jack cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his seat.
Jack stared at the ceiling. His hands wanted to tremor, but he held them still.
The walls weren’t padded. Maybe they should be.
“How are you feeling today, Jack?” asked the therapist he had to talk to.
“Fine,” said Jack, without a hint of inflection. “I’m feeling just fine.”
She sighed, softly. The sound carried.
Jack felt a bubble of anger and horror and grief rising through him, and viciously squashed it back down. He breathed, in and out, and stared at the ceiling.
He could still feel everything from that night, a week or a century or a second ago. It roiled in his gut, churning against his ribcage. He’d been stupid to take so many so fast. He regretted it, in a dull sort of way. But he’d needed them.
If he took enough, they might work again, stop him feeling like this, feeling like shit-
“Jack, I can’t help you unless you work with me.”
Jack didn’t move. That wasn’t a question, so he didn’t need to answer it. He could just trace the outlines of the ceiling tiles with his eyes.
“What do you want from these sessions, Jack? What are your goals?”
That was easy. “I want you to let me play again.”
His therapist’s lips pressed together. She wrote something, the sound of pencil on paper grating against Jack’s ears. What did he want? He wanted her to shut up. He wanted everything to stop. He wanted to get out of this stupid place. He wanted Kenny’s arm around his shoulders. He wanted more pills than they’d give him.
Jack’s jaw flexed. He pushed everything down. His head was filled with steel wire, scraping against the insides of his temples.
“Jack, I’d like you to try something new. Read a book, or draw. Find something you enjoy. Could you do that for me?”
Jack flashed her an empty smile. “Sure.”
Jack heard Ransom and Holster bellowing along to Hedwig’s theme from down the street. He smiled, steps lengthening, and Bittle scrambled after him.
“What’s got you in such a hurry?” Bittle huffed, kit bag bumping against his back.
Jack tilted his head towards the Haus. “I want to know which one they’re watching.” He slowed, matching Bittle’s pace. Bittle was probably tired, not used to waking up early.
“Which one?” Bittle’s nose scrunched up, and the corners of Jack’s eyes creased.
“Yeah.” Jack fished his keys from his bag. “Shits usually calls me if they’re doing a marathon.”
“A marathon of what, exactly?” Bittle asked, eyebrow raising. His face was flushed from exertion, hair tostled. Jack blinked at him for a second, then the door creaked open.
“Hey,” Lardo said, smirk curling her upper lip. “Chamber of Secrets, get your ass in here.”
Jack grinned, dumped his kit by the door, and flopped onto the couch.
Read a book. Draw something. The only things Jack could draw were diagrams of pitches, player movements. The lead of his pencil kept snapping.
Jack looked blankly at the meagre shelf of books available to residents, hands shoved in his pockets. His hood was up.
It didn’t really matter which one he picked. He thumbed down a paperback, one with a colorful spine. Trudged back to his room, book under his arm.
He tossed it on the bed, stared at it for a moment, then flopped facedown right next to it. He used one finger to hold up the first page.
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.
“What.” Jack said flatly, staring at Bittle. He blushed under the scrutiny, swiping at his hair. He’d left a smear of flour on his forehead.
“You can’t judge me! You thought Rihanna was in Destiny’s Child!” Bittle snapped, arms crossing.
Shitty’s head lifted slowly off the table. A single page stuck to his cheek. “Bitty, did you just say that-”
“Yes! That’s way worse! It’s not a big deal I haven’t read Harry Potter! So what!”
Shitty hissed through his teeth. Jack stood, slowly. His eyes were fixed on Bittle. They narrowed, suddenly.
“Have you seen the films?” Jack asked urgently.
“I- No!” Bittle admitted, his chin jutting out.
Slowly, a smile spread across Jack’s face. Finally. He turned on his heel, abandoning his laptop, and thundered up the stairs. Where had he put it, he knew he’d bought- aha!
Prize clutched in one hand, Jack loped back to the kitchen. Bittle was fiercely rolling out his pastry, but he turned at Shitty’s indrawn breath.
Jack held up his battered, treasured copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. “Rule 1. No flour stains.” Bittle rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to protest. “Rule 2,” Jack continued, firmer. “No folding the pages. Rule 3,” and Jack smiled like a shark. “No watching the films. Not until you’ve finished the series. Agreed?”
“You boys.” Bittle huffed. He picked up his sheet of pastry, lining the pie tin with practiced motions. “Leave it by the side.”
Jack stepped out of the double doors. His skin prickled in the wind, the open air harsh against his skin. He turned his shoulder against the wind, and his father’s hand landed there.
“Ready?” Papa asked, quietly.
Jack breathed, in and out, and didn’t immediately respond. He took one step forward, away, and then another. He didn’t look at Papa. It was easier to talk if he didn’t look. “No.”
Papa walked beside him, leading the way. “If you need more time…”
“No,” Jack said, fumbling, harsh. “It’s like- The first game. After an injury. Not going to be ready. Might as well.”
He could feel Papa’s gaze, feel the eyes on him. He wondered why there weren’t any cameras, why there wasn’t any reporters shouting for his attention. Baying for his blood.
Jack’s fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. His therapist had given him the book, the first. There was a whole series, she’d said, for once he got out.
Jack taped his stick in precise, calm motions, focusing on the feel of it, polished wood under his palms, the tug of the tape on his fingertips. He breathed, in and out.
Ransom and Holster yelled something in unison, part of their pre-game handshake, and Jack’s eyes snapped to the sound. He should be used to this by now, the thrill of adrenaline, the sharp smell of sweat. Everything hit him harder, before a game. But it still shook him, a little.
Breathe. In and out. Tuck in the last bit of tape. Put the roll away. In for seven, hold for five, out for seven.
Jack’s eyes scanned the room, and settled on Bittle. He was sitting in his stall, fully kitted out, squinting down at- Oh.
Jack was moving before he knew it, shoulder thumping into the stall.
“Where are you?” he asked, and Bitty gave him an unsure smile.
“In the locker room?” Bitty slipped a piece of paper- a receipt? -into the pages.
Jack frowned. “No, the book. What part have you got to?” Jack clarified, tilting his head in question.
Bitty laughed nervously. “Well, they’re having a flying lesson. Neville’s fallen off, poor thing.”
Jack leaned against the side of Bittle’s stall. “Tell me what you think.”
Jack’s shoulder thudded against Bitty’s pads, and he yelped, crashing to the floor.
“Get back up, skate through it,” Jack urged, but Bitty just shook, leaning hard against the boards.
Jack squatted, then reached out, hand resting on Bitty’s shoulder.
“I can’t do it,” Bitty gasped, hugging himself. “I-”
“You can.” Jack tightened his grip, ducking to look Bitty in the eye. “I know you can.”
“Not everyone’s a Gryffindor, Jack! I can’t- I’m not-”
“Hey,” Jack tried to make his voice soft. “You’re right.”
“What?” Bitty looked up, and Jack’s heart twinged at the look on his face.
“Not everyone’s a Gryffindor. Not everyone can beat their problems on the first try. But do you know what I thought, soon as I saw you bringing pie into that first meeting?”
“No. I thought, there’s a Hufflepuff.” Jack smiled at the memory.
Bitty laughed, bitter. “The useless ones.”
Jack nudged Bitty’s shoulder again. “The ones who work hard. The ones who don’t give up, who welcome anyone, no matter what. The ones who can give a frat house yellow lacy curtains.”
Bitty snorted, eyes suspiciously shiny.
“You can do it, Bittle. Just gotta get back up.” Jack stood, offering Bitty his hand.
Bitty took a deep breath. He took Jack’s hand, pulling himself to his feet.
Jack shrugged. “Ready to go again?”
Bitty rolled his shoulders, eyes narrowing. “Come at me.”
Jack’s eyes crinkled. “Oh, and by the way?” he said, smirk flitting to his lips. “I’m a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor”
Bitty gave him a Look. "I can believe that, Mr. Lets-Get-Up-At-4AM.”
Jack smirked. “Let’s go, Badger. On my mark.”
