Rich had shrunk back, carefully so it went unnoticed, when it seemed like this bird might know who he was. Hopefully she didn’t remember where she’d seen him before, he didn’t want to deal with having to be the Minister’s son right now. But he’d followed the conversation, even smirking when Wren said she was all before trailing off. He had a few ideas what Wren might have been thinking of. Watched with amused confusion when it seemed as if the pair of them were having two separate conversations. He didn’t understand how she hadn’t caught on that Wren was accusing her of being a psycho fan but she apparently hadn’t. And then there was that threat again. Did she think she sounded intimidating? She looked like the sort of person who cried if they stepped on a snail. Her name though was interesting. Only because he thought it almost rang a bell, more like brushed lightly against it. “Jones?” She nodded as she answered with a cheery yes. Why did that sound familiar? Hmm… “Never heard of you,” Rich settled on, deciding he must have heard it somewhere else. It wasn’t an odd name. She, or a family member, probably worked at the Ministry or something. She didn’t seem too upset hearing that Stubby hadn’t mentioned her. Or surprised at all. Maybe they’d gone to school together. Wren went there too but this bird did not seem the type that either Stubby or Wren would know. At least if she was some lying crazy it’d be easy to leave her sleeping in a chair without making a scene. Which was feeling like a real possibility.
Was this bird for real? Did she really not know how crazy Stubby’s fans were? Or was she just one of the crazies pretending not to know? That seemed like a lot from one of those crazies. Wren was starting to get a headache; this was a lot more thinking than he was used to. And her explanation of who she was didn’t help all that much either. A friend, not family. Or a fan. Or kind of a fan? That was confusing. As was that addition. The Hobgoblin stuff as well. The words made Wren remember that night he’d brought Ebony to the party, the first time he and Rich had talked for real. It was also the first night Wren had decided to try to be a real friend to Stubby, helping Rich get the other bloke out of the club before he could fuck himself up more. Clearly he’d found other ways. But at least it handn’t been with Rich and Wren. But they’d gone back to Rich’s place, and Stubby had played a song that was different from the stuff he played with the Hobgoblins. Was that what this bird meant? If it was, then she really must be a real friend and not a psycho. He glanced over at Rich, an unspoken question in his gaze when the other seemed to recognize the bird’s last name, but that was something he’d follow up on later. If the name meant something to Rich it didn’t ring any bells for Wren. And apparently Rich had never heard of her, so whatever reason he’d had for repeating her last name was something else. “Me either,” Wren said after Rich, not bothering to return the introduction because really it was her fault for not knowing who he was. “How do you know him, anyways?” A friend from before, she’d said. Wren supposed, in a way, he was sort of Stubby’s friend from before. Stubby had always been popular at Beauxbatons, charming and talented in a way that Wren had always thought screamed of some kind of Veela intervention. He and Wren had gotten on well there, too, for the same reasons they did after Stubby got famous. Only his name hadn’t been Stubby then, had it? Something with an S. Similar enough to Stubby that Wren was drawing blank now. Shit. He wondered if this bird knew. But he kept the fact he’d gone to school with Stubby to himself for now. Wren was inclined to believe she wasn’t a crazy after the other music comment, but if she tried to claim she knew Stubby from Beauxbatons—well, actually, Wren probably wouldn’t have remembered her from Beauxbatons. He knew all the people in his own year, even the very unmemorable ones, but outside of that….yeah, so much for that being a clue. Still, maybe her answer would give them some extra proof she wasn’t a psycho.
It felt wrong that Stubby was back in the same gaudy, tight clothes he’d been wearing onstage when the world went black. When he’d almost died, again, less than a week after the first time. According to the healers. At least they’d cleaned the clothes for him so they didn’t smell like vomit and alcohol and who knew what else. Sometimes the clothes were like armor, building up the Stubby Boardman persona and shielding him from from how utterly meaningless everything else in his life was. Other times they were a straightjacket, confining and oppressive and impossible to shake no matter how badly he wanted to. Today they just felt like a costume, like he was stepping into someone else’s life, playing a part he didn’t fit into.
And he was, wasn’t he? Stubby Boardman wasn’t the bloke getting checked out of rehab for the second time in mere weeks. He wasn’t the bloke who passed out onstage in a pool of his own vomit after his entire band quit while he had some sort of potions-fueled nervous breakdown. The Hobgoblins were over. Finished. They’d been over since Ferdi quit, really, but now it was more final than that. His father had already been in to see him, of course. Not in his capacity as a father—he seemed to have given up that role years ago—but as a manager. First to berate him for how badly he’d fucked things up, storming in with a pile of magazines and news articles the hospital staff had quietly disposed of as soon as he left. Then to let Stubby know this wasn’t over, that he could spin this, that Stubby Boardman would be the biggest solo artist the wizarding world had seen. Couldn’t even be bothered to bring Stubby different clothes to change into on his way out.
And so nothing was really different, was it? Stubby lied to the therapists about making changes to his life—as if he had that sort of control over his own life—and they probably didn’t believe him, but they couldn’t help him either. Not while his existence was the property of Sanford Bishop Management, LLC. Today he was sober, painfully so, but at least the withdrawal was over. And there were still potions, different ones in tiny vials prescribed by the healers that were meant to deal with a myriad of mental problems Stubby hadn’t paid attention to, as if he needed a healer to tell him just how broken he was. They took the edge of, he supposed, but how long would that last? When was his father going to show up again to kickstart his supposed new reformed solo career?
Not today, of course. Not to meet him on his way out of the hospital. Another thing that hadn’t changed since last time. Except something was different when Stubby stepped out into the waiting room this time, a familiar voice the first thing he heard. “Jonesy?” He said in a quiet voice, stopping in his tracks. She looked out of place in her bright-yellow sweater against the stark white hospital walls, but Stubby had only ever hallucinated when he was especially fucked up, and he was painfully not fucked up right then. And it wasn’t just Hestia, he realized a moment later. His eyes flickered to the people she was looking at on the other side of the room, and his confusion increased. “Rich? Wrenny?” The bloody hell were they doing here? They looked maybe even more out of place here than Hestia. A vague memory bubbled to the surface of his thoughts: that morning he woke up on Rich’s couch, painfully sober as he was now, only to find that Rich had swiped potions from him the night before. How Rich had said Stubby was his oldest friend, and something about not wanting him to die. It felt like a bunch of bullshit at the time. It still did, sort of. Only Rich was here. And Wren, too.
Stubby was struck by the strong urge to turn around and run back to the hospital room he’d been in for the past two weeks. Back to the scheduled days and the people pretending not to know who he was, or care—that part might not even have been pretend, which made it even better. He didn’t know what Hestia, or Rich, or Wren wanted from him right now, but he knew he wasn’t prepared to give it. He didn’t have anything left to give. His shoulders slumped and he let out a quiet sigh. Maybe whatever they wanted, it would be over quickly.
Well that was rude! They didn’t even introduce themselves back. Maybe not surprising. These two didn’t seem to have manners. Might be they were fellow rock stars. Hestia didn’t keep up with Hobgoblin news, not once the magazines started talking about their partying. She’d decided that maybe that part of Stanley’s life was better not known. Some of it still dribbled out to her. A Witch Weekly magazine left on her desk by one of the other office girls. Mates gossiping around her. Scandals big enough that everyone gossiped about it. Hestia also read the stuff about the Hobgoblins in the Prophet since that tended to be more music related. Though she absolutely avoided that terrible gossip column. Except she had read the last one Rita Skeeter. It had claimed that Stanley’s problems had been caused by the Hobgoblin that had left thanks to potions scandals. That his band mate had gotten him hooked on them. Hestia wasn’t sure if that was true or not. But she did know Stanley’s problems had started before the Hobgoblins. She remembered all too clearly the abrupt change in him from her best friend she could tell anything to, to the bloke puking in her toilet after her parents’ Christmas party. Hestia hadn’t told anyone at first, thinking that maybe it was like the older Hufflepuffs, some of whom did more than just drink fire whiskey. Experimenting and trying things out. Younger because maybe Beauxbatons were into things younger. Stanley had told her stories about school that made it sound like they were a lot more experimental than Hogwarts. Once she’d finally gotten worried enough to say something to his dad she’d basically been patted on the head and told she and Stanley led different lives. She couldn’t possibly understand his. He was a rising rock star, she was just a kid. It had always felt odd that Mr Bishop seemed to have forgotten his son was the same age as Hestia. But he was an adult and she’d been taught they knew what they were doing so she’d decided she was just worrying for nothing. That hadn’t stopped the worrying. It had only gotten worse since, both her worrying and Stanley’s problems. Hestia hoped these two were’t going to cause more of them for Stanley.
Even though they’d been rude and not introduced themselves Hestia answered his question. “Oh we grew up—“
Before she had a chance to finish she heard a soft voice saying her name. Well Stanley’s name for her. She turned and smiled at him, slightly nervous all over again. He looked pale and tired. His clothes made him look out of place in the hospital. She waited for him to say something more but after saying the two blokes names he didn’t seem inclined to say any more. Before either of them could rush Stanley away from her she walked over to him. “Stanley, hi! Your dad said you didn’t want to see me or hear from me. You even sent the flowers back… Which is fine, not everyone likes flowers! And I know sometimes my optimism exhaust you so I completely understand why you would want rest and not have visitors. I hope it’s okay I’m here. You didn’t open the letter with the flowers so I just wanted to tell you I’m so glad you’re…alive. Um…you didn’t mean you didn’t want to see or hear from me for ever did you?” Mr Bishop had been very clear that their friendship had run its course. Maybe it wasn’t fair to ask Stanley to tell her himself but Hestia hoped there had been some kind of misunderstanding.
