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silaslich · 11 days

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It’s My Heart, I Can’t Cut It Out

Simon Riley x John Mactavish

Wc - 5.7k | chapter 1 of ? | check cover art for tags+warnings

The hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley is exactly how John remembers it.

Teeming with life and noise. Hollering children and chatty witches. Every sense is overwhelmed; theres a street vendor on the corner selling pumpkin pasties and there are owls sitting in cages overhead when John stops outside of the Magical Menagerie for a quick break to give his dodgey knee a rest. The owls hoot and coo at one another loudly - chattering away, some are as white as snow and others as black as the midnight sky, their eyes a medley of bright yellows or burnt amber.

Every now and then, as he stands observing, Gambol and Japes joke shop explodes with colour. John watches in fond amusement, he deduces there must be some kind of charm within the shops very walls, it explodes like powder fireworks that whir and fizz when activated.

As the man begins to weave his way through the street he spots a lonesome young boy, his nose and palms pressed flatly up against the glass window of a shop. Looking up - John reads the sign above the door, Quality Quidditch Supplies, he guesses the latest broom is out on display. Sure enough as he passes, his eyes catch sight of a magnificent broom; its wood is dark and the design is sleek with silver crossbars and neatly preened bristles. John doesn’t know much about brooms and what makes them good or not, but he can surely agree that it is a handsome broom indeed.

Continuing on his way, he passes another shop. It had been one of his favourites during his youth when he studied at Hogwarts - Flourish and Blotts. Textbook after textbook, with whatever bronze knuts and silver sickles his mam could spare, or whatever he’d managed to save up over the Christmas’ and birthdays that passed by.

He’d read the entire potioneering section from back to front by the time he was in his Third-year.

John thinks about stopping in, for old times sake, but his level-headedness is in full control today, he’s far too busy to mull around London and shop.

While everything feels so familiar, it still seems very distant in his mind. The layout has been the same for hundreds of years now, albeit some of the shops have moved during John’s lifetime, he still feels a sense of disorientation when it comes to finding the only store he needs. Just when John is about to flag down a sinewy-elderly witch in an emerald cloak to ask her to point him in the right direction - that’s when it hits him.

The smell.

He can smell the foul and putrid stench of the Apothecaries; like bad eggs and rotten cabbages, it drifts over the crowd of witches and wizards and hits him square in the nose.

His eyes follow the direction in which the repulsive smell lingers on the air, he spots the overhead signs quickly as they sway in time with the cool August breeze.

Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary, alongside Slug & Jiggers.

The wizard is slightly surprised at how little has changed with the two shops over the years, nestled side by side, as competitive as ever with their bright - abundant displays and discount placards hanging in the windows. He remembers how funny it had been back in the day to watch the enchanted placards change every few minutes, depending on what the other corresponding one had written on it. He’d managed to get his hands on a full sized unicorn horn from Mr Mulpepper for a mere seven galleons once, he’d never felt so lucky in all his life, he didn’t even need the bloody unicorn horn. He ended up giving it to Gary.

A little bell jingles above the door when John steps foot inside of Mr Mulpepper’s shop, the wizard smiles, nostalgia seeping in. His eyes rake over the shelves, filled to the brim with glass bottles and vials of varying sizes. Some bubble and some sizzle. Others sit dormant, thick and soupy in viscosity. There are pale powders in jars and plucked feathers and hairs stuffed into cork-stoppered flasks. From floor to ceiling the shelves and units are plentiful, there isn’t a single spare place for anything more.

Out of the corner of his eye John notices a cauldron bubbling behind the counter, an earthy - mint-like scent filling the air, coming second only to the obvious smell of a dropped Ashwinder egg. A green smoke plumes from the cauldron and the closer the wizard gets the better he is able to identify it, a Wiggenweld potion is brewing.

John is quick to scan for what he needs, he had memorised his list on the way to London, wanting to be as quick and efficient as possible. He stocks himself up on the essentials, keeping in mind the number of students he’ll be having under his watch.

He purchases more than is necessary, he thinks, but he would rather be prepared.

He picks up a multitude of supplies; flobberworms, pickled murtlap tentacles, valerian root, powdered moonstone, jobberknoll feathers, four ounces worth of dragon liver, lacewing flies and sopophorous beans as well as other lesser important items for his own personal stores for the term.

With his arms full to the point he cannot physically carry anymore, John makes his way over to the counter. The bottles and jars clink as they meet the old wooden surface, chipped and scratched with age. Before he can even ring the small silver bell atop the wooden counter to alert the store owner of his presence, an old wizard peeks from around a corner, his big brown eyes made to look even bigger then they are by his incredibly thick spectacles. The older wizard smiles, “ah- I thought I heard the door go” he says, rounding the corner entirely now and wiping his sullied hands down the front of his apron.

He barely spares John a second glance before he starts eyeing up the jars and bottles, muttering to himself as he tallies up the cost, punching the numbers into an ancient looking machine that’s buttons resembled that of a 1900’s typewriter.

The young wizard doesn’t know what to say, watching the man as he counts, noting he loses his place twice and has to start all over again. John smiles to himself, even years later Mr Mullpepper is just the same.

When the old wizard is finally done totalling up John’s cost and takes his payment, his muddy eyes flit up to John’s very briefly, only to do a double take. His hands still where he had begun wrapping the fragile bottle of doxy eggs in brown paper, he squints his eyes and leans invasively into John’s space. He smacks his dry lips together, “well I say“ he starts, “is that John MacTavish or have my eyes finally quit on me?”.

John’s lips curl into a gentle smile, one that makes crow’s feet wrinkle the outer corners of his eyes, he notices as Mr Mullpepper’s gaze lingers on his left eye specifically, and the scar that now runs vertically through it.

Although this makes his jaw tick slightly, John retains his composure, knowing what a difference it must be from how the elderly shop keeper remembers him.

Gone are the days where he’d catch a train on a Sunday with Gary and spend the day perusing bookshop shelves and scouring through the many apothecary bottles and jars that sat crowded on the shelves, looking for the ones with the most gruesome contents to make each others stomachs flip. He’d looked very different back then; smaller width ways but near enough the same height, he had never been the biggest or the strongest; and with thick waves of hair that sat just beneath his ears too - that was enough to earn him a tease or three from his classmates

John hadn’t returned to Diagon Alley since Gary’s death.

It happened just before they started their seventh and last year. Then John cut off all of his hair and became even more reclusive then he had been before he met Gary; he threw himself into his studies because it was the only thing he found that helped him keep himself upright at that time.

“Aye - Mr Mullpepper” he starts with a nod of his head, “been quite a while hasn’t it” it’s a fact not a question. John isn’t sure if Mr Mullpepper remembered Gary or knew of his death, or if he even put two and two together and realised that Gary’s death was the reason John hadn’t been back to his shop. John had never been to the Apothecary alone, today would be the first time, and as he predicted - it just doesn’t feel right.

There’s a few stretched out seconds of the elderly man simply staring, as if breathing John in, taking in all that has changed and all that is still so strikingly familiar.

The older wizard leans even closer, taking in every detail of John’s face with a wry brow, he hums to himself - deep in thought.

“I heard about your friend son” he says quietly, frail hands returning to their task of wrapping bottles, “nasty thing what happened” another bottle wrapped and another click in John’s jaw, before he can open his mouth to interject - the old man continues. “You two were close, no? Don’t think there was ever a time I saw you two that you weren’t attached at the hip” the older wizard smiles to himself, as if relaying a memory in his mind. Another bottle. He sighs, “I’m sorry that you had to go through something like that son” there’s a note of empathy in his voice, an understanding, “losing someone that close to you at any age is unbearable - but you were just a lad” John feels the lump forming in his throat but he’s too caught up in the words to say anything, even if he tried he’s not convinced any would surface.

After the last bottle is wrapped the older man finally looks up and meets John’s eyes and he audibly gasps when he sees the expression on the young wizards face.

“Oh-“ his lips open but the words take a moment to make it from his brain to his tongue, “I’m so sorry” he says, having not really thought about the impact of what he was saying, he opens his mouth to speak again but John simply waves his hand dismissively.

“It’s alrate - honest” John says affirmatively, seeing the man’s expression falter, thinking he perhaps went a little too far. No matter how raw the wound still feels, John knows there is not much point in dwelling on it, he will forever love and miss Gary - but he can no longer place his mental wellbeing in the hands of someone who is six feet underground.

John clears his throat, knocking back the lump that still threatens to choke him up, “it didn’t feel the same coming back without him, but I find I’m in need of a few things and you happen to be only man I trust for such things” he smiles down at the elderly wizard and watches as he mirrors him, his face splitting almost in two “you’re certainly most welcome John” his lips stick to his crooked-yellow teeth as he smiles and John can’t help but find it a little bit endearing.

For a handful of drawn out seconds the two men stand grinning at each other like idiots, old memories lingering at the forefront of their minds. Some sad and some not so. Without faltering the old wizard clears his throat, “so John - what have you been up to the last few years, hmm?” He leans close against the countertop, eager for the young wizards response.

John’s lips quirk into a half smile, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, “been travelling around for the last few years, it’s my first time back in England since last year actually, staying for good this time - I think” he’s giving up more then he probably should, but what could it matter now? It’s because he hasn’t spoken to someone in so long, someone that isn’t a nurse or a nosey pest investigating what happened and subsequently hounding him for answers he can’t provide.

Continuing on with his task of wrapping up the bottles and jars, Mr Mullpepper hums in acknowledgement, focusing on not damaging John’s purchases. “I travelled around myself when I was about your age” he tells, wrapping the goods in a brown paper parcel, “I went as far as Australia mind you, but this place was always in the back of my head, wouldn’t have it any other way now though you know” he meets John’s eyes once more with a knowing smile, grey brows raised at him. John nods, flattening his lips, “I felt the same way for a long time, each time I came home to visit I found I didn’t really want to leave again”. Now he really was oversharing, he’s settling back into civilian life a little too quickly for his liking.

John feels the question pop into his head and he can’t help himself but to ask it, “if you were so happy in Australia why not open a shop over there?” It’s at that moment that John breathes in everything around him, the old comforts of the awful smells and the jars that are filled with liquids that bubble and eyes that follow you wherever you move; is this what this man’s true happiness looks like?

It looks as if John had handed Mr Mullpepper a sour boiled sweet, the expression on his face twists as he digests John’s question, truly taking his time with coming up with his answer. Then he laughs, more to himself, “my wife didn’t want to move” he shakes his head with a smile and John tilts his head, not sure if he’s quite satisfied with that answer. He hums, “but surely if she knew it would make you happy she would go with you, am I wrong?” John unknowingly starts to lean in closer, anticipating the old man’s comeback. “Well she wasn’t actually my wife at that time, but she already had an established career here, and a good one too. I would never ask her to give up all of that so I could have a silly little shop somewhere sunny” he laughs once more, “dreary old London will do me just nicely” he nods at his words, satisfied.

The young wizard nods in understanding, but in reality, he doesn’t really understand.

Real - tangible love has always escaped John. Sure, he can brew it in a bottle, but it’s no where near as powerful as the real thing.

He loves his family and he loved Gary, but it’s not the same, not in the same way that something unseen ties two people together. Whether it be fate or chance or whatever else is written in story books, John has never come into contact with it - because he’s not exactly sure he believes in it. Not because he doesn’t believe it exists, but because he doesn’t believe it’s for everyone.

It’s the unfathomable idea that there is someone out there made for John and he the same for someone else, and the likelihood of him meeting that person would be one in a billion chance that he is sure he is unlucky enough to never encounter.

He once believed that he and Gary were meant to be. Platonic soulmates that finished each other’s sentences and enjoyed all of the same things to the point it was eerily concerning. John would have been content spending his days with Gary, reading books together in silence and coexisting comfortably without the need for anything but each other. Maybe they would have had a shop together, leaving their other dreams at the door and being content enough with the privilege of each other’s company from then onwards.

Then on a random winter morning John had woken with shattered dreams. Gary was gone.

“Anyways - that’s enough of my rambling” John cuts off his own train of thought before he gets himself in any deeper, “I better be heading to Hogwarts” he bites his tongue as soon as the words leave his mouth. Fucks sake.

The old wizard’s eyes practically triple in size at John’s words, the penny drops and John finds himself scrambling on his hands and knees to pick it up. “Hogwarts?” The elderly wizard queries, scratching his wrinkled chin, “are you teaching there this year?”. As much as he wants to tell the old man that’s he’s misheard him, John knows better, he knows how much he’ll have to rely on this shop from now on and doesn’t want to tarnish this relationship that’s already been standing for well over a decade. The younger wizard nods with a smile, “sure am, potions professor” John flicks the parcel of goods where it still sits on the counter between the two of them, “if that much wasn’t already obvious”.

For a moment, the older wizard pauses, looking from John’s face to the brown parcel of ingredients on the counter and then back up again. “Pardon me for saying this so plainly son, but surely you’re still a bit young to be a professor” it’s either an insult or a compliment, and at this very moment in time, John can’t decide which it is, but he doesn’t have much time to think it over - he really needs to get to Hogwarts.

“Not as young as I like to think I am” John says, his lips pulled into a thin line, he really should be going. Mr Mullpepper simply nods, “I could say the same thing about myself” he laughs to himself, scratching his stubbled cheek, “I better let you get off, bet you’ve got lots to do to get ready for the new term next week” he seeks. John wants to recoil in disgust over the fact that the new term is only a week away but catches himself before he does. He nods, “more than I even have time for, typically” he retrieves his large parcel and begins to step back, putting the distance between the old wizard and himself.

“It was nice seeing you again son, take care now” Mr Mullpepper says, finally turning around to stare into the bowl of his cauldron as it bubbles away, the smoke having turned from an electric green to a smokey grey. Although he isn’t looking at him, John nods to the old man, “you too, you’ll be seeing me again soon I’m sure of it” the young wizard smiles, the shop owner turns his head to meet John’s gaze and returns the smile. “I’ll look forward to it, it’ll be just like the old days and you can tell me all about your classes”.

John nods emptily, repeating the words but much much quieter, “just like the old days”. He uses his spare hand to wave and nods at the man as he leaves, the little bell jingling again as he shuts the door behind himself, John’s ears catch the tail end of “farewell!”just before the door clicks shut.

The young wizard looks out into the street, the crowds of people move in smooth rhythms like flowing rivers and the shops are rammed with last minute school shoppers - they carry books by the arm full and have bags with the uniform shop logo, Madam Malkin’s, etched into it. John thinks back to a time when that was him, all those years ago, he thinks about how excited he had been to be accepted into Hogwarts; what a path it had put him onto, and it has all led up to this very moment.

He is completely in two minds about all of it.

It’s later on, in the confines of his room at The Leaky Cauldron, that John’s eye begins to burn furiously in his skull - seemingly out of nowhere.

He shifts in his bed, it squeaks and groans beneath his weight, but John just can’t seem to get comfortable. With no active wound or injury in itself he can do little more than ride out the pain, his potions would be futile, or at least the ones he has on hand would be.

It feels like there are needles deep under his skin, poking through and puncturing his flesh, the searing pain is hot to the touch, his fingertips feel as if they’re touching freshly cooked meat - fresh off a skillet and sizzling. He has felt pain before, pain much worse than this, but it doesn’t make it any easier. His body is tired and his mind seeks rest, but the itch behind his left eye is enough to make him want claw it out of his own head - would the lack of an eye take the pain away?

Who knows? Certainly not John.

When he wakes the next morning, he feels even more tired than he had been when he laid his head down against his pillow for the night. He had been too hot and irritated to sleep, the pain in his head and eye too much to ignore. His muscles feel heavy as he dresses for the day, a crisp three piece suit, purchased for the occasion; it’s a deep navy blue in colour and he pairs it with an indigo tie that has a silky-like finish to it. John feels rigid, too stuffy in all of his layers, as if his necktie is trying to strangle him to death - it’s all a little too formal for his liking.

He knows first impressions mean a great deal, and for that reason and that reason only does he force himself to grin and bear the discomfort. Not only will John be meeting so many new people, most of them faculty, he knows he’ll be back in the presence of some familiar faces, some a damn sight more welcome than others. All the same, he wills himself to hold his tongue and use his manners, he owes it to Price.

John boards the Hogwarts express at ten-to-nine in the morning and is set to arrive at twenty-past-five in the evening.

Yes, he could have used a quicker - more efficient mode of transportation, but he didn’t really want to. It was far too risky to apparate in his current physical condition, the same for riding a broom. He wasn’t the best with the Floo Network systems and he didn’t know of any Portkeys that led directly to Hogwarts, if there even were any.

The long train journey gives John plenty of time to think, maybe too much time, he plays over everything in his head. Rehearsing how he’ll introduce himself, wondering what his living space will be like, weighing up whether or not he’s made the right decision even coming all together.

He tries to ignore the dull pain in his head. It throbs rhythmically, pulsing behind his bad eye, making him blink harshly from the intrusion of pain. He’s hoping it’s his anxieties playing up, that once he’s there and settled that he’ll stop getting the headaches - at least he can brew something stronger at the school if it doesn’t subside.

The wizard remains productive. Writing up some lesson plans for the first years, coming up with a to-do list for when he actually gets there, already thinking about ways he can keep himself busy until the school year officially starts up. Thanks to the lull of the trains carriage and the lack of other passengers, John manages a few hours of sleep, while not the most comfortable - it definitely does him good to shut his eyes for a little bit.

By the time he’s stirred awake by the jolting of the carriage, the sun has crept down past the horizon and the sky has transformed into a beautiful euphony of buttery-peach and a deep shade of violet. They meld together on the backdrop of the rolling hills, lined with woolly sheep and highland cows, John knows they’re close - he’s made this journey enough times to know.

The train compartment is illuminated in a streaky glow of pale yellow, he’s grateful that it isn’t too bright, it’s just enough for him to read his papers - it’s soothing in a way. It gives him a chance to look over all of his paperwork one final time before he begins to stack it all together neatly, putting it away for safe keeping, making way for a new flurry of nerves that tighten in John’s throat.

By the time he’s departed on foot from Hogsmeade station and is reaching the stretch of a short dirt path that leads toward the school gates, it is already dark enough that John needs to use his wand to cast the lumos charm, the tip of his wand now able guide his way through the evening air. He had sent his tawny owl, Einar, ahead of him; letting him out of the carriage window as they approached the Hogsmeade station, he was sending word to Price of his owners arrival. Sure enough, as John approaches the Covered Bridge, he’s able to make out the silhouette of a man, one with wide shoulders and sturdy legs. With each step the man takes, the other man’s face is illuminated in a deep amber glow - the familiarity makes John quirk a smile.

“Filthy muggle habit tha’is” a smile stretches across his lips as he speaks, watching as Price takes a long- final drag of his cigar, shaking his head with the same easy smile John wears. “Shut it you” the older wizard scolds, emptily, stepping forward to greet John with a hand shake - one that leads them to pull each other into one another’s arms, firm hands patting backs as they spare a breathy laugh.

It has been so long, John thinks, he won’t say it out loud, but he’s missed the familiar smell of his old friend - tobacco and fresh parchment, with the sadly recognisable hint of powdered moonstone. Not much has changed at all, he fears.

The two men break away from their embrace and simply look at each other for a few long seconds, despite the years that have passed, nothing but the faint signs of age and wear and tear have changed the two of them. John notices that Price’s eyes linger on his bad eye, a minuscule crease in his old friend’s brow makes John slightly unnerved, but it appears that Price catches himself quickly. Price quirks a slight-smile, “it looks like you’ve healed nicely” he notes, “I was worried when I received word from the Ministry about the incident, as soon as I opened the letter and saw your name my heart fell out of my arse - I can’t lie to you” despite the way Price forces a laugh from his chest, John can tell he is deadly serious.

Price may retain his stone-like composure on the outside, but inside he is probably, if not definitely, the most caring man John has ever met in his entire life.

John smiles, somewhat somber, thinking back to the time in which that letter was sent. “You know me sir, takes a lot more then a severing charm to knock me down”, John puffs out his chest, a futile attempt to make light of the topic, Price sees straight through him. The statement is true; in part, it would take a damn sight more to deter John Mactavish from something he has firmly set his mind to. He’s had unforgivables hurled at him too many times to count and the amount of dittany that he’s used during his Auror years would put any apothecary to shame, but even so, nothing had stopped him.

Until now, until everything changed.

John knows that Price knows. The physical injury hadn’t been the main detail of the letter, it was merely an afterthought, a by the way. Thats why he’s here now; unfit for fighting, forced into the confines of a classroom to sit behind a desk and drone on and on about the many uses of powdered root of asphodel. He’s grateful, he’s one of the lucky ones, he was able to keep his life, but he had so many more things he planned to do before even thinking about what would come after his career as an Auror.

Price clasps a hand to John’s shoulder, a steady grip as their gazes meet, “how are you feeling?” The older wizard asks, a faint lilt of his scouse accent dripping through his words, he speaks gently.

From the look on John’s face, you’d think he’s been asked to recite a Shakespearian play off by heart, he opens his mouth to answer but takes a moment to reconsider his words.

He thinks deeply, compressing everything that’s happened recently, he’s stacked and folded everything neatly and filed them away in his mind - collecting dust. He’s tried this before, and sooner or later, the filing cabinets overflow and spill, a mess for him to have to clean up. Despite this, he feels the need to keep it tucked away, out of sight out of mind. It’s an automatic response for him given his last few years spent in isolation from anyone he felt he could really talk to and open up to, John knows that he’s back in the presence of a man that is there to listen - no matter how big or small the issue seems. Yet, he can’t bring himself to show his belly this early on, the soft weak parts of himself need to be protected. He trusts Price with his life, but he wants to retain his false armour for just a little while longer.

John’s mind seems to come back to him, and with an empty smile and the crinkle of his eyes, “not too bad mate”.

“Not too bad at all”

It’s dark. So dark that John can’t see his own hands in front of him, it leaves him disoriented, unstable on his feet as he tries to catch his bearings.

He blinks his eyes quickly, willing his eyes to adjust to the dark, he hasn’t got his wand - and he’s never been the best at wandless magic. Too busy of a mind he was always told.

The sound of his own breathing catches his ears, it’s unsteady, faltering as his heart beats painfully against his ribcage. There’s an uneasy feeling that begins to take root in his chest, spreading through his lungs, making it harder and harder to breathe.

His feet patter against the floor, it’s cold and his feet are bare, he’s dazed and confused. The sensations around him feel real, the chill in the air and the way he can feel his breath fog the space close his face, the cold Earth against the bottoms of his feet and the dread that licks its way up his spine. It’s all too vivid to be a dream, a little too real, too close to home.

It’s clumsy, the way John steps forward, arms extended out at his sides to balance himself, to see if there’s anything around him to lean on or anchor himself to. There isn’t. He continues to blink, each time harder than the last, every one of his senses is beyond his reach - not feeling real.

Another step, and then another.

Something warm touches his toes, it makes him still, unsure on whether or not to progress forward. But this is all a dream, there are no consequences here.

He moves ahead, his feet trudging through something warm and wet, viscous in nature.

It’s familiar. It’s foreign. It’s blurred.

John feels dizzy. His head pounds and his eyes sting from strain, the pain feels so real, a little too real. As he takes another step forward, arms still outstretched, his fingers graze something. Something solid. Something real.

For some reason, John’s blood chills, the hairs on his arms and at the nape of his neck stand on end, fight or flight activated.

Suddenly, the darkness evaporates, as if it’s sucked out of the air.

Johns palm flattens against whatever he had bumped into, he can see his hand now, he watches as blood drips between his splayed fingers.

His mouth opens to make a noise but nothing comes out, he’s silenced, unable to cry out for help or mercy.

His eyes quickly trail up, following the blood that drips, directly to the source. From the mangled jaws of a beast; a half man - half creature, sharp blood-coated teeth grind together and John can’t rip his eyes away.

He’s trapped in the pull of it, in the way the creatures chest rattles and the way the stench of copper and decaying flesh fills his nostrils- bile rises in his throat.

John can’t think, he can’t blink, his body isn’t his own. He stares at the beast, looking up, finally realising the creature’s stare is fixed on him, watching with lidded eyes - John knows those eyes.

A hazel tree from somewhere he can’t remember. The way they bleed into a gentle green in the centres. There’s delicate flecks of gold in the brown parts that he remembers, he’d memorised where each fleck was, but it’s out of his reach now.

John screams. He hears it, inside of his head, echoing around him. The beast has its claw in his head, its sharp unguis piercing his eye with a haunting wet squelch.

It’s his bad eye, the one that bears the scars, the reason for his downfall.

The man can feel the pain, it’s white-hot, it’s agony. It rips through every part of him, the blood and fluid rushes out of his head and down his front, staining his skin. His screams tear from his throat, so much so there is little to no noise anymore, he’s severing his own vocal cords from the strain.

He shuts his eye tightly, he can’t look at the creature any longer, it’s maiming him, it’s killing him.

Then, through the pain and the noise and the darkness, there’s another familiarity that breaks John out of his own mind.

“Johnny?”

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