AMOR FATI . . . fred weasley

IV. SIRIUS BLACK'S COWBOY HATS

thirty-first august

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。..·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

THE MOON IS IN LEO, and Johannah hates it.

    She hates the way her emotions flirt with her, tempting her, attempting to bubble over. (Like, did she give them permission? Um, no!) She hates the way she feels so volatile, like she's gonna blow at any second. Most of all she's scared - alright, she's frankly flipping terrified - that something will go wrong, and she will erupt, and she will put the people she adores through the embarrassment of dealing with her tumultuous grief.

    Summer got up and marched away when Harry arrived at Grimmauld Place, and Joey's managed to keep a lid on everything thus far. She hasn't even breathed a syllable of sadness to anyone.

    But the moon is in Leo, and she can't shake the terror that sooner or later, she won't be able to keep this going much longer.

    Bottled feelings and daisy chains and long, lazy days in the garden; sunrises in the twins' bedroom and Extendable Ears swinging from the pockets of her dungarees; a summer plagued with, for the first time in Joey's life, sheer terror at the prospect of going back to Hogwarts.

    Here she is, then, on the last day of the holidays, up to no good (as per usual!) with Frances and Ginny.

    Black lace curtains, rotten and rancid, frame both sides of Walburga Black's portrait; like insect carcasses they swing, to and fro. On one side Joey stands, giggling uncontrollably, her freckled fingers twisted in the sweaty lace. On the other side Frances Alexandre's green eyes glow mysteriously like elusive emeralds; behind both of them, on the landing, Ginny Weasley can't stop scoffing as she keeps lookout.

    'Three... two... one!' Joey mouths, her countdown melting into giggles, and they both leap out at once. Frances thrusts the pumpkin pie in her hands onto Walburga's face with relish. Joey's laughing so hard it hurts, and behind them Ginny is losing it.

    The effect is instantaneous, as Walburga explodes into her usual tyrannical tirade of screaming, only this time, it's slightly muffled by the pastry currently sliding down her pallid cheeks. 'Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! How dare you befoul my face-'

    'Oh, do me a favour and fuck off,' Frances snorts, 'your face is foul enough already.' Then her emerald eyes widen and she grabs Joey and Ginny's arms and yanks the two of them into a dingy broom cupboard.

    'Oi, what's-' Ginny begins, disgruntled.

    Frances nods towards the keyhole and the three bend down, listening to the bustle of Mrs Weasley and the twins begrudgingly following her.

    'Hurry up! There's a nest of dead Puffskeins under the sofa I want you to deal with, and far more Doxys than I thought. Honestly, Sirius has let the drawing room get so out of hand.'

    'Can you blame him?' George scoffs, skeptical.

    'I wish I was a dead Puffskein,' Fred mutters darkly.

    Molly either doesn't hear them or pretends not to (which, to be fair, is far more likely and completely reasonable). From the sound of her brisk footsteps and the twins' reluctant shuffles Joey can tell they're approaching Walburga's portrait.

    'Boys!' Molly gasps, horrified. 'Why on earth would you do this to a painting? Your brothers would never!'

    'We didn't!' Fred begins indignantly.