ᴏᴍɴɪꜱᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ✵ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜꜱ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ✵

𝐈𝐈𝐈

☼ ꜰʀᴇʏᴀ ☼

»»-------≪ °❈° ≫-------««

The morning arrives with intricately woven threads of gold that streams through the tall glass doors and invades Freya's bedroom with radiant light. She reaches her hand out of the fabric of her blanket, noticing how the light pours through every open space between the fibres. The material is warm between her fingers, and she feels the flood of golden rays soak into her skin.

It's early, earlier than Freya intended to wake, but the hope for more rest has diminished. Seconds turn into minutes as she lays there, staring at the canopy above her. The last day in America, and she can't help but feel unease at the thought of her move back to England, it seems as though her demise awaits her across the Atlantic Ocean. Trepidation conquers her brain, and she can feel the stomach acid coil in her stomach like a snake and ascend to her throat.

It comes as an electrical storm in her brain that is, quite honestly, painful. Apprehension lures over her like a dark shadow — no, like the Grim Reaper itself — and she reckons it's here to stay until she releases her last breath. It's different from a headache and feels all the same as intense sorrow, a sort of frozen panic with nowhere to go. Moisture glistens faintly in the corner of her eyes, but she won't allow the tears to fall, she must be strong. One thing she knows, and promises to herself, is that before she leaves this earth, she'll put her all into killing Voldemort herself.

There's a rich smell of coffee that disperses throughout the house to her room. A strong bitter aroma of beans being brewed, which can only mean Ezra is awake. Strange, because she's almost always the first one to arise. It's her wake up call, and she ventures to the kitchen eagerly. As Freya walks through the narrow hallway, she notices that the cottage is completely empty, all of their belongings packed away, and there's a pang of hurt in her chest. This home has always had a comfortable atmosphere, orange lighting that gives the cottage a soft and warm hue. It's painful to think about how this is the last day she'll embrace the cosy environment, in less than twenty-four hours her sanctuary has been ripped away from her.

When she reaches the kitchen, Ezra doesn't say anything, he just offers her a wistful smile, and then pours the liquid in a coffee mug, letting the hot vapour of steam trail out of the cup. He passes the cup to her, and she mutters a thank you as she holds it below her lips, indulging in the way warmth is emitted from the mug. There's a silence that permeates the air as they sit across from each other.

Ezra is the one who eventually breaks it. "I'll miss Ilverymorny."

She forces a smile. "Perhaps we should stay, then."

"Freya," Ezra sighs. He leisurely places his mug of coffee upon the table, and fixes her with an unwavering stare. "You're a right pain in my arse, but I would unleash hellfire upon the world if I lost you. I can't... I can't lose you, okay? There's no safer place than Hogwarts."

Freya pretends as though the words her brother spoke didn't create a blow to her stomach, and covers it up with a harmless jest. "Ah, yes, the school of hogs and warts. Can't wait."

A lighthearted chuckle releases from his lips. "I reckon you'll fit in just fine with the hogs and warts."

She sticks her tongue out before taking a lengthy sip from her mug. "When do we leave?"

"Albus's colleague should be here soon," Ezra replies. He picks up the golden tin from the table and pulls out a cigarette, but looks at his sister before he lights it. "Go wash up. You look like a right mess."

"A hot mess," Freya corrects. Once there's a small flame followed by smoke, she snatches the cigarette and takes a drag. "Should I wear a dress or pants and a top?"