Photograph | fred weasley x fem reader

Chapter Seventeen: Finally Home

Blackbirds singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

The soft, familiar sound of the guitar crept in through the dark, sluggish haze you were in. As the gently-sung words slurred into focus, you felt yourself stir.

It must have been very early in the morning. Your eyes were so heavy and puffy you struggled to open them. Your face contorted into a scowl as you squinted into the morning, fighting against your eyelids- they were almost painfully sealed shut.

You were taken aback by the brightness of your bedroom. The light was so white and raw it felt like you were staring into the sun.

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Despite the fact that you were so groggy that you couldn't yet see, nor could your brain fully wake, you felt your lips curl into a sleepy grin. Your Dad had woken you up with the very same song, every single day, for about ten years. It still made your mornings so much better.

You waited for the strong smell of his coffee to break through the foggy cloud of tiredness, just like it always did.

You frowned. A dull throbbing had begun to ripple through the back of your skull, pounding at your head. Your thoughts felt sluggish and unformed. Perhaps you were poorly, and your Dad was gently singing you awake to coax some medicine in you.

You waited for your eyes to warm up to the world, you waited for your tiny little bedroom to swim into focus. You waited for the smell of breakfast, for the sound of Pebbles, your cat, meowing impatiently.

Every muscle felt frozen in place, locked into an unnatural stillness. Your limbs were heavy, weighted down by an exhaustion that seeped deep into your bones. Even breathing felt strange—like your ribs had forgotten how to expand and contract properly.

Instinct told you to move, to sit up and shake off the eerie stillness clinging to your body. You braced yourself and tried to push upward, but the moment your back lifted even slightly, pain lanced through your stiff muscles, sending a creaking, splintering ache up your spine.

A short, pained breath slipped past your lips—lips that felt dry and cracked, as though they had been untouched by water for days.

Yes, you were definitely poorly. You must have caught that bug that was going round at school.

"Careful, dear," a soft voice murmured beside you.

Your painful breath hitched and your heart skidded against your chest.

That was not your Dad.

You tried to turn your head, but your neck protested, stiff and unyielding. The sudden motion sent another jolt of pain crackling down your back, and a strained whimper caught in your throat.

It felt like you had been asleep for a thousand years.

"Ow," you croaked, though the word barely scraped past your throat. Your voice was awful—hoarse and brittle, like shards of glass had been wedged inside your windpipe. It didn't even sound like your own.

"Oh, I know, dear," the voice said again, patient and soothing. "You'll need a good stretch."

You forced your aching eyes to open just a little wider, and through the blur of bright light, you found yourself staring at a woman that definitely was not your father, in a room that definitely was not your bedroom.

A pale blue curtain stretched out in front of you, its perfect white wheels sitting on a cool grey tile. Large, ceiling-tall windows lined the walls next to you, letting in the sun's light bounce off the starkly clean bricks and marble. There was a strange scent- something earthy and pungent swirling in the air with something antiseptic and floral.