(no subject)
It's a funny thing, alcohol. And being hung over is even funnier... after the fact. Right now he's got a headache that's almost blinding; the empty Ogden's bottle sits on the table.
He doesn't remember drinking most of it, but he knows he had to do it.
Bill needed a night with no dreams. If Ogden's was the path to that, so be it: he got what he needed. But by light of day, his mind -- though foggy -- is starting to work again and through the haze there's an unexpected clarity: he knows what happened now.
He knows where the memories came from: the happy ones. And he knows that any Muggle psychiatrist would have a field day with him for it, but he knows where they're from; his suspicions were solidified by the experience last night with Riddle.
It never happened.
The knowledge of that is perhaps more painful than any torture inflicted on him during his captivity, but it's a loss that he can grieve now that he understands it. Brains are funny; human brains do strange things when under stress. He knows this thing; it was part of basic Defence Against the Dark Arts training his final year at Hogwarts where they talked about the possibility of captivity and reactions and damn, this headache is well-deserved. What's the term? Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? That's what it would be now: at the time, creating that world was...
...self-preservation.
A place to go where no one could follow.
Let go of it, Bill. It's something you never had. And at the same time, it's something that saved your life.
Maybe some day, he'll have a reality like that... maybe. He won't count on it. And as he forces himself to sit up, he's thankful for having had it, if only in fantasy, if only as a safety valve. Right now, the reality is that his world is a world at war and there will be casualties. There will be far worse things happening than what befell him. He knows how lucky he is to be alive.
Brand me a survivor, then, and hand over the firewhisky: I'll do whatever it takes to help win this war.
He needs his brother. He needs to talk to Charlie.
(Once the headache's gone.)
He doesn't remember drinking most of it, but he knows he had to do it.
Bill needed a night with no dreams. If Ogden's was the path to that, so be it: he got what he needed. But by light of day, his mind -- though foggy -- is starting to work again and through the haze there's an unexpected clarity: he knows what happened now.
He knows where the memories came from: the happy ones. And he knows that any Muggle psychiatrist would have a field day with him for it, but he knows where they're from; his suspicions were solidified by the experience last night with Riddle.
It never happened.
The knowledge of that is perhaps more painful than any torture inflicted on him during his captivity, but it's a loss that he can grieve now that he understands it. Brains are funny; human brains do strange things when under stress. He knows this thing; it was part of basic Defence Against the Dark Arts training his final year at Hogwarts where they talked about the possibility of captivity and reactions and damn, this headache is well-deserved. What's the term? Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? That's what it would be now: at the time, creating that world was...
...self-preservation.
A place to go where no one could follow.
Let go of it, Bill. It's something you never had. And at the same time, it's something that saved your life.
Maybe some day, he'll have a reality like that... maybe. He won't count on it. And as he forces himself to sit up, he's thankful for having had it, if only in fantasy, if only as a safety valve. Right now, the reality is that his world is a world at war and there will be casualties. There will be far worse things happening than what befell him. He knows how lucky he is to be alive.
Brand me a survivor, then, and hand over the firewhisky: I'll do whatever it takes to help win this war.
He needs his brother. He needs to talk to Charlie.
(Once the headache's gone.)