He didn’t want to do this.
He did not want to do this.
It wasn’t his fault! JD blamed - well, there were plenty of people to blame. The dumb Barely Adult from the carnival who failed to make him feel like less of a mess, that one paparazzi immediately running his picture from that one party, and - ugh. So much. Maybe it all started with his unfortunate arrival at Rocky Mountain International. His mother, Julip Daegan, argued it began much earlier. She wouldn’t say it started from birth - he knew she would have preferred to continue modeling than have a child but his father was certainly… persistent. His agent clearly believed it started when he, thirteen at the time, drove the enchanted motorbike straight into the concert crowd with a sixteen year old hottie sitting right behind him.
(JD did not at all think that was a problem. He was now practically sixteen and his thought was the exact same as it was when he was thirteen - NOICE!)
But something happened. His brain was broken. Not even his star power could repair it. Songs wouldn’t come to him, and nothing felt good enough. His career was slipping through his finger. Sometimes he forgot how to breathe and he knew everyone was just waiting for him to fall apart, so they could all point and laugh. They were waiting for his downfall. The wait was torture.
And maybe that was why he attended a wild, wild, wiiiiiiild celebrity party on New Year’s Eve, which ended with a brawl, molotov cocktails that may or may not have been made with tiny little embers of fiendfyre, and plenty of wizarding photographers there to capture it all. Drunk, broken down, and literally setting his life on fire: JD was done for.
He really, really, really, truly did not want to do this.
But his mother and agent and father said he had to if he was ever to set foot in a recording studio, or on a stage, again. Not for his benefit, but for theirs. If he didn’t take the initiative - well, JD wasn’t going to find out what they’d do.
He knocked on Counselor Tennant’s door just once. It took him a moment to answer, and the <s>former</s> popstar nearly turned and left right there. Before his electric blue dragonhide boots could carry him to literally anywhere else, the door opened. He signed.
“Hello,” he greeted the adult in a defeated monotone. “Art gives me no joy anymore and I hate it here. Can you tape and glue my brain back together so I can tell my agent I’m fixed and can perform again?”