31 December, 1894 — Diagon Alley
Changes. The sign stopped Don Juan in his tracks particularly because it conveyed nothing at all. It was striking in its nonspecificity. Changes of address, changes of clothes? You going to dye my hair blond? he had joked to the woman at the booth, and she had given him a withering look in return. Is that your heart's desire? What you most wish to change? she asked, deadpan. Don Juan felt like a child being lectured by a Hogwarts professor, even though he wasn't sure what he was meant to have done wrong. He put his hands in his pockets, chagrined, and hung his head. (Maybe he was misreading the whole interaction somehow; this was, since the worrisome spiral with Professor Griffith, more and more of a concern of his. That he was just — slightly off, and did not know how to put himself back to rights; off in ways that everyone else was noticing).
The woman gave him a look that seemed too discerning — or maybe it was that he was suddenly feeling too raw. When she asked what he would change about himself in the coming year, the thing that came to mind was something Griffith had said, about his miracle drug that had consumed most of Don Juan's December — it got me off opium when I was stuck on it. Very shortly Griffith would be entirely inaccessible again, sequestered at Hogwarts, and Don Juan could still feel the thrum of need in his veins. Maybe moreso, since Christmas — there was a lot at the moment to escape from. So there was only one answer, but he hadn't expected to actually be able to say it out loud: "To stay sober."
She handed him a chocolate. He considered briefly whether this was, in fact, an opium dream.
He had been thinking about what life would be like if he were sober since that first interaction with Griffith where he'd said that he'd stopped opium; said it so casually, like it was nothing, like it was easy. He'd thought about not losing days to blackouts, waking up knowing where he was and what time it was, remembering conversations. Never having to have someone else explain what he'd done, the way Griffith had in the laboratory. The people he could — maybe not disappoint, if he ever had another opportunity to try again.
A piece of candy wouldn't fix him. Nothing would fix him. He paid for the chocolate and popped it into his mouth with a haphazard shrug — affected indifference — and went back along his way.
The woman gave him a look that seemed too discerning — or maybe it was that he was suddenly feeling too raw. When she asked what he would change about himself in the coming year, the thing that came to mind was something Griffith had said, about his miracle drug that had consumed most of Don Juan's December — it got me off opium when I was stuck on it. Very shortly Griffith would be entirely inaccessible again, sequestered at Hogwarts, and Don Juan could still feel the thrum of need in his veins. Maybe moreso, since Christmas — there was a lot at the moment to escape from. So there was only one answer, but he hadn't expected to actually be able to say it out loud: "To stay sober."
She handed him a chocolate. He considered briefly whether this was, in fact, an opium dream.
He had been thinking about what life would be like if he were sober since that first interaction with Griffith where he'd said that he'd stopped opium; said it so casually, like it was nothing, like it was easy. He'd thought about not losing days to blackouts, waking up knowing where he was and what time it was, remembering conversations. Never having to have someone else explain what he'd done, the way Griffith had in the laboratory. The people he could — maybe not disappoint, if he ever had another opportunity to try again.
A piece of candy wouldn't fix him. Nothing would fix him. He paid for the chocolate and popped it into his mouth with a haphazard shrug — affected indifference — and went back along his way.
![[Image: 0hYxCaj.png]](https://i.imgur.com/0hYxCaj.png)
MJ made this <3