Untouchable: a Fred Weasley fanfiction

Front and Center

If I didn't have Fred walking me through the corridors right now, I think I would pass out. 

I feel my chest moving up and down, up and down in these tiny, rapid breaths, my legs nearly turning to jelly as we keep our eyes forward, desperate to get to the Defense classroom. Every professor's sleeping quarters are attached to their offices. That's where Dad is. 

He's gonna lose his shit. 

I'm already there. 

"My life is over," I'm saying now, breathlessly, as Fred keeps a tight grip on my hand. "My life is absolutely over."

"Don't get too excited," he says, "you've still got a long while before that."

If I weren't in the state that I'm in at the moment, I would've appreciated my dark influence on his humor, but right now, all I can think about it everything that is going to happen now that my world has been turned upside down by stupid, fucking Ella Walker. 

And yet, she has turned into the least of my problems. 

"Breathe, Jo," he's telling me as I desperately try to prevent an oncoming panic attack. "Breathe. Five things. Find five things."

I gulp, looking around the dark hallways. Torch. Sneakers. Stained glass. Boyfriend's scruffed-up hair...

We practically burst into the Defense classroom. It's dark, and quiet, and almost eerie, now that we're here at night, but we're already pacing up the stairs to Dad's office, knocking on the locked door. 

Fred knocks first, firm and loud. I think I'm sweating. Oh, god. Oh, god. 

I look behind me, as if there's bound to be a crowd hurdling full force towards us, blasting into the classroom with cameras waving and voices all shouting over one another. 

I turn back to the door. "Dad? Dad, it's Jo! I'm sorry, I know it's late, I– I need help!" 

No response. Please, wake up. Please. 

"Dad?" 

Fred knocks again. "It's important!" 

He looks at me, noticing that my breathing has picked up again. He squeezes my hand, pulling me closer. I try to inhale, fully. 

And, just as I am about to lose hope, the door creaks open, and Dad is standing there, one hand on the edge of the wood and the other scratching his forehead as he looks up at us, his eyes clearly adjusting.

He's wearing a bed robe and slippers. "Jo, are you alright? Fred...?"

"I'm sorry," I say again, "I'm sorry to wake you." 

"It's alright," he says. "It's nearly midnight... what's the matter? And it better not be that my daughter is pregnant, if you're coming to me at this hour..."

"No," I say, "it's worse. So, so much worse."

My throat stings. I watch my father's brow furrow. 

"Something..." Fred starts, "...something happened."

And he tells him, because I don't have the strength to right now. 

I fear that if I say it out loud, the panic will officially take over, because all I can think about is all of those kids' faces, all of my peers, of the ones I don't know, of Ella smirking at me, of my diary being waved around like a baton in a circus. 

And after Fred is finished, Dad is... quiet. 

Only for a moment. And then: "I see."

"I'm so sorry, Dad," I say. "I'm... I'm so sorry, I can't believe I let this hap–"