AMOR FATI . . . fred weasley

VIII. HAPPY WORLD TUNA DAY

6:31PM 1/5/1995

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。..·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

SAITADA, CELTIC GODDESS OF GRIEF and all-round, certified badass, would be mortified if she could see how much the memory of Matthew's death sickens Joey every time her birthday rolls around.

    Joey knows everybody thinks her hatred of her birthday is silly,  like, it's the anniversary of her whizzing around the sun and not the apocalypse or anything. But that's not the point - Matthew Attlee's death, on the second of May, 1989, was because of his sister. There's no hiding from the truth even if it is all acrid like dried blood caked under her fingernails. So no, she isn't going to enjoy her birthday, thank you very much.

    It's the night before now, and she's idly twirling spaghetti around her fork at the Gryffindor table, naturally. And all she can think about is Matthew; she misses him all the time, obviously - what's she meant to do, only miss him at weekends? - but the nostalgia is basically a poison-laced knife at this time of year. (Thanking you, Taurus season!)

    But Merlin, she wants him here now, as she half-heartedly listens to the twins arguing with Lola about which of their brothers she would destroy in a fight. For the record: it's all of them!

    'I could annihilate Percy without even trying,' Lola announces.

    Fred thinks for a moment, which Joey has never seen him do before and it stuns her. Is he feeling too well? 'Nah, he could just decapitate you with his old Head Boy badge.'

    'Bighead Boy,' George corrects. 'If all else fails, at least he can knock you out with his abnormally large noggin.'

    'You're forgetting that Lols is a Metamorphmagus,' says Lee. 'She could just transform into, I dunno, Cornelius Fudge and Perce would shit himself.'

    'Genius,' George says, a little too admiringly, and Joey's heartstrings tug.

    There's a playful nudge from her left, and it yanks her properly back to the first of May, 1995.

    'You all right?' Fred asks, voice thick through a mouthful of spaghetti.

    'Fine, of course, duh, why wouldn't I be?' Joey lies.

    They don't know about Matthew and they don't need to. Ever.

    'Nah, she's half left,' pipes up George from her other side.

    That makes her laugh. Fred smiles at the sound of her sunshine chuckle and nudges her again. 'Just checking.'

    She knows it meant less than nothing, but then she looks down and his pinky is resting gently against hers. Fred and gentle are two words that shouldn't exist in the same sentence, but there it is: freckled with its milky nail and tiny cuts, lightly ink stained, wrapped around the crook of her own, and you'd best believe it, baby!

    She hates herself for not getting over him yet; here she flipping is, would you believe it, practically drooling over his tiniest finger.

    'Of course Attlee is not alright, you numbskulls,' Lola bursts out. Her strong Welsh accent is harsh and lovely. 'Have you forgotten what day it is tomorrow?'

    Tomorrow.

    'World Tuna Day,' Joey says very quietly.

    Lola blinks. 'I beg your pardon?'