𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨-𝙧.𝙖.𝙗

41-funerals

MOONLIGHT POURS INTO JO'S BEDROOM, and she wakes up with a gasp, shooting upright with a hand clasped to her chest. Her head spins, a shining layer of sweat over her skin. It's late, or early, and it is very, very still. Her window is wide open, but no wind blows through it. There is no buzz of the night or chirping of bugs. It's very, very still.

She swallows. Her mouth is sticky and dry. Jo runs a hand through the roots of her hair and reaches for her bedside glass of water, gulping nearly all of it down. She had been dreaming of dirt, of it being shoveled down her throat, piling up until it was overflowing out of her mouth, stuck in between her teeth, coming out of her nostrils. One of her less pleasant ones.

Throwing her blanket off to the side and grabbing her wand, Jo climbs out of her bed, trying to erase the sensation of dirt tickling at her throat, and shuffles out into the hall, climbs down the stairs, bare feet against the hardwood. A glance at the clock that hangs between two family portraits tells her it's nearly four in the morning. Might as well get the day started already, she figures. Not a chance of any more sleep.

Jo moves about the kitchen with half-closed eyes, mindlessly placing her kettle on the stove and checking the several cauldrons she has set up for some of her more complex brews. She takes the lid off of each one, checking their colors and consistencies, making notes in her head of what ingredients she'll need, what shops she'll have to stop at.

She makes the list in her head and runs through it a few times, only snapping out of her thoughts when she hears a creek in the floorboards above her. It's a stark, echoing noise in contrast to the thick stillness that has settled over the morning. Jo's head snaps in the direction, eyes narrowed and heart now beating in her throat. Her hairs stand up straight on the back of her neck, and she starts crawling up the stairs, feet steady, avoiding the spots she knows will groan under her weight. She creeps, wand held out in front of her as she reaches the top of the steps, not hearing anything but her own blood pump through her veins. Jo tries not to think of the source of it, but the image of a cloaked, masked figure lurking in the shadows, hovering over her helpless, sleeping parents, makes her eyes twitch. The halls are empty. Jo steps towards her parents' room.

It's been a few weeks since Euphemia and Fleamont have been able to crawl out of their bed on their own. Jo stands outside their closed door, hand shaking as she lifts her wand. She takes a deep breath and pushes the door wide open.

And instead of a Death Eater Mask or a dark creature or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Jo finds her father, standing up with his back to Jo, right in front of his open window.

She sighs, relief instantly flooding through her. "Dad," she whispers, trying not to wake her mother, "what are you doing? You should be in bed, resting."

Her father makes no move, no reaction to Jo, but she can see his shoulders rise and fall with his breath. Jo takes a step towards him. "Josie, I love the mornings," he tells her, voice croaking. It's weaker than it used to be. "I love how peaceful they are. I love the way they feel. I wish I could've seen more of them."

Jo tilts her head, studying him as he slowly and painfully shuffles his feet to turn and face her. Jo's gotten used to him, the way he is now. Skin-tinged green, so sickly and sunken he hardly looks alive. The boils look like they're about to burst, and that's after Jo had been treating them for weeks. "I could've helped you up, if you wanted to look out the window," she chastises him weakly. He brushes her off with the wave of his hand and takes another weak step toward her. Jo rushes forward, reaching for his arms and trying to steady him. His skin is so rough now, it feels like bark against her own. "Be careful, Dad," she tells him, helping him lower to sit on the edge of his bed.

Fleamont smiles down at his daughter, eyes watery. Jo kneels before him, amazed at how much he's able to move, hopeful that it's an improvement. "Josie," he says, and reaches up to cup her cheek, "when you were born, it was the happiest moment of my life. Watching you grow up has been the greatest privilege, the greatest gift."