AMOR FATI . . . fred weasley

V. LOLA LEMONT, SHEEP SHAGGER !

1st september

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。..·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

THERE'S NO DOUBT ABOUT IT: Joey's hair is hazardous terrain that nobody has dared to touch since Cedric's death, except Bill Weasley. Well, there's a reason he was in Gryffindor!

He grits his teeth around his wand as he sections her tangled flaming mess with deft fingers that have done this all too many times before. She's sat wriggling in the seat, apparently physically unable to stay still for even a fraction of a millisecond, chatting excitedly about Quidditch as she does so. But, contrary to popular belief, Bill isn't stupid, thank you very much, and he knows she's terrified about going back to Hogwarts.

He would've been, too. He imagines how he'd've felt if his own best friend, Ben Gallagher, happened to randomly die on him, and his stomach somersaults, like the Sloth Grip Roll she's currently enthusiastically describing.

'Blimey, Annie, you're growing half a tree in here!' he laughs, removing a few tiny branches and a chain of daisies from the roots of her auburn hair.

'Billy,' she moans, pretending to be sulky, 'why did you have to go interrupting my perfect description of a Sloth Grip Roll?'

He rolls his eyes, grinning. 'Um, because I know what it is already. I was a Chaser, don't forget.'

'And you were the best Chaser Hogwarts has ever seen,' she compliments wholeheartedly, clapping her hands together with giddy delight to emphasise her point.

'Says my favourite Keeper ever.' With one elegant flick of his wand her hair shimmers and shines, all the knots melting away, every strand flowing back to perfection, like honey. It'll last about a day, before she gets it all messed up as per usual, but still. 'Ta-da!' He leans back to admire his handiwork, arms crossed smugly across his chest. 'Reckon I should retrain, don't you?'

She rises like a playful angel from the chair and leans her head against the highest part of him she can reach: the torso. Breathing in the deep, familiar homely aroma of cinnamon, she murmurs, 'Definitely.'

'I love how you always believe in me, Annie, don't you ever change.'

He's ruffling her gossamer hair affectionately, watching her pirouette across the inhumane kitchen in her mismatched socks. Her tiny hands flail as she slips and slides, her fingers with the nibbled nails and the pink and purple ink stains. Her hands that are always glacial cold, her hands that look so naked and alien when they're not pressed into Fred's, into George's.

'Well, um, that's because I do always believe in you,' she says earnestly, a slight frown pinching her eyebrow. 'Why wouldn't I?'

Because you don't believe in yourself, Bill wants to say. And you really, really should.

Before he can say anything, though, there's a cacophony of crashes in the hall, followed by Molly Weasley's trademark yelling, and by the way Joey's face explodes into a brilliant grin, Bill knows exactly who's raising hell in the hallway. As per fucking usual.

"— COULD HAVE DONE HER A SERIOUS INJURY, YOU IDIOTS —"

'Tell me, Annie,' he begins, pulling her up onto the worktop and handing her a steaming mug. She cradles it lovingly, giggling into the steam. 'How does it feel to share one brain cell amongst the three of you?' He taps gently on her forehead with a long lithe finger. 'Don't you worry it could get lonely?'