sapphire || fred weasley

fifty

Triggering content, viewer discretion advised.

If there was one thing Beatrice Nott hated more than anything in the world, it was talking about her feelings.

She hated it.

She hated the vulnerability that it took to open herself to someone.

Anyone who wasn't Fred, for that matter.

He had seen her cry and have panic attacks several times. He had seen her scream out of anger and frustration far more than she cared to admit. He had seen and made her laugh, complete euphoria cursing through her veins. 

He always found it fascinating how Beatrice was able to feel so much at once.

How she was able to feel so many things and push them deep inside her until they all exploded like a badly made firework from his joke shop.

They were both sitting on their bed together, Fred watching her amusedly with a loop-sided smile plastered on his face as she threw all the therapy balls with impressive force all around the room, screaming loudly out of frustration.

Fred badly concealed a snort when one of the balls bounced against the window and shot straight towards her head, hitting her between her eyebrows, it clearly being her last straw as she cussed loudly and hissed in pain while rubbing the bright red spot on her face.

"You done?" he snickered and conjured a pack of ice and pulled her closer to him so that he could place the ice pack on her skin.

"Shut up," she groaned and took the ice pack from him. "I can do it myself."

"So I can tell," he shook his head. "Do you want to try again?"

"No," she said sharply.

"Come on Tris," he stroked her cheekbone with his thumb as she avoided his gaze.

"I said no," she snapped. "I can't make my hands stop shaking."

"Poppy says it's part of physical therapy love," he sighed. "It will become easier with time and the tremors will go away."

"I don't want to try again Fred," she tossed the ice pack away and leaned closer to him, feeling tears of anger welling in her eyes. "I'm tired."

"Here," Fred took her hand into his and began massaging gently her palm and wrist.

"What if I can't make wands anymore?" she asked quietly, looking up at him with glassy eyes.

"Don't think about those things," he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her onto his lap, smoothing her hair with his hand comfortingly. "With the therapy and once you're fully recovered, you'll be as good to start making wands like crazy again."

"I'm tired of therapy and I'm tired of bloody hand exercises and I'm tired of having to wear the fucking stupid weighted gloves all the time," her voice cracked.

"I know you do love," he shushed and kissed her cheek. "But Poppy says that only a couple more weeks of them and with the potions and you'll be as good as new."

"I don't want to be good as new," she complained and harshly wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I want to be like I was before all of this!"

"Breathe Tris," he reminded as her breathing spiked up.

"I'm useless!" she gripped the roots of her hair. "I can't even hold my fucking wand without fucking droping it! Just cut my hands off already and shove a magical prothesis on me already!"