Bad Decisions | Fred Weasley

Twenty-Nine: Dies Irae

A caterpillar was crawling along the windowsill when Sylvia woke up. It was still dark outside, the thin blue haze of early morning just beginning to pour into the bedroom. She reached out her hand from under the covers, letting the little furry body crawl across her finger and back onto the dark wooden grain before inching out the cracked window.

Her whole body ached, like she had done a triathlon the night before. She shifted, tried to turn onto her back and stretch her limbs, but was met with bones so stiff she could hardly move without streaks of pain running up and down her body. Her mouth tasted metallic, bloody.

"Ow..." she groaned to herself, managing to lift an arm to rub out a knot in her neck.

There was a weight on her stomach, a body next to hers. Fred's arm stretched across her abdomen, his breath steady and quiet in her ear. She lifted his hand and slipped out from under the covers, sitting on the edge of the bed. Standing, she took a moment to balance herself against the wall. Her hip locked and she bent slightly, cracking it back into place with a loud pop. She winced, padding her way laboriously across the room.

The bathroom light had been left on. She turned it off immediately, the thin line of a headache stabbing at her temple. She tried not to look at herself in the mirror right away, hoping she didn't look as bad as she felt, but she couldn't help it.

She could only make out so much in the dim light, but she was sure now that something was wrong. A blood vessel had burst in her right eye, filling the outer half of the whites with red. And still, it wasn't her eye that alarmed Sylvie the most. It was the shock of silver that ran down the fringe framing the left side of her face. She combed her fingers through the streak, inspecting the roots at her hairline, all of which had turned a bright white.

Someone was walking down the hallway, floorboards creaking below their bare feet, and she closed the bathroom door. She waited for them to pass, but the steps halted outside, a soft knock rapped against the door.

"Sylvie?" They whispered.

She let out a sigh through her nose, reluctantly cracking the door open, just enough to allow Fred to peek through.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," she scratched at her nose, "I'll just be a minute."

He didn't move.

"Go back to bed," she whispered, inching the door closed. He didn't push back, but he tried to speak again, just as the latch clicked.

"Syl—"

With her head rested against the door, she could hear him let out a tight sigh, hesitating before retreating back to his room.

She stayed in the bathroom for nearly half an hour, brushing her teeth, swishing her mouth with water from the sink and spitting it back out, pink with blood. She tilted her head back and pulled at her cheek with a finger, looking for any injuries in the mirror, but couldn't find any. She sat on the edge of the tub and stared at her toes, traced her finger over the little scars on her knees she'd gotten as a kid. Only when she began to droop with sleepiness did she finally return to Fred's room.

Her footsteps were light and quick as she hurried over to the bed, facing away from him and pulling the covers up to her nose. Her chest ached at the thought of him there, knowing he was awake too, waiting to speak or for her to speak first.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He finally asked, whispering to the ceiling.

"Mhm," she hummed. It came out thin and wavering from the back of her throat, far from convincing.

"You probably don't remember much, do you?"

She didn't reply, looking straight ahead at the window, waiting for another caterpillar to crawl in.