1: Trouble - Fred Weasley

13. nameless colour

i would just like to disappear

i'll be this invisible thing, the nameless colour of melancholy

life is a cure that someday kills, what happened to the child I used to be

-

Boxing day morning, Imogen woke up far too early. She could tell that she was about to have the kind of hangover that made you completely incapable of doing anything but lying in bed hating yourself, and it had started off by waking her up at six am, to try and give her as much suffering as possible. Groaning as she did it, Imogen forced herself out of bed to go and brush the alcohol off her teeth.

When she reached the bathroom and saw herself in the mirror, she realised she'd forgotten to take her makeup off and now it was looking markedly less pretty than it did last night, smudged all over her face. She washed her face clean and brushed her teeth, remembering as she did, the events of the night before. Fred Weasley swam around in her head, in his dress robes, coaxing a stupid smile onto her face. Imogen knew she'd probably made an idiot of herself, but she'd also told him she liked him, and he'd told her he liked her too. It was enough to make her giddy.

As she left the bathroom, preparing herself for a morning of daydreaming about Fred, she heard a strange tapping. It took her a moment to find it's source, which was a large brown owl out on the windowsill, trying desperately to get in. Imogen had never heard of owls knocking on dormitory windows before, and it took her a minute to accept the bizarre appearance. She stalked across the room, walking past her crumpled dress on the floor, and opened the latch, letting it in. The bird calmed down immediately upon being let in, and, after a quick smoothing of it's own feathers, it presented it's leg to her.

"What, for me?" she asked doubtfully. But a glance at Mo's empty bed told her it hadn't been slept in. She didn't recognise the grey owl; it looked very official. But the owl seemed insistent it's message was meant for Imogen, so she bent down and took it.

Once she looked at the logo printed on the parchment, her heart skipped a beat. St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. It had to be a response to her application! But then, they weren't supposed to hear back for another few months, at least.

What if your application was so outstanding they wanted to get back to you right away? A voice in her head asked. Her heart jumped in excitement and she could wait no longer before ripping it open.

Once she started reading, Imogen's blood ran cold all through her body.

Dear Miss Imogen Falker,

You have been offered as Ms Wilma Falker's emergency contact. Ms Wilma Falker was admitted to our care around 4.00 this morning in critical condition following an overdose on muggle alcohol and a psychiatric episode. You are permitted to visit her outside of our regular visiting hours in light of her severe condition.

Yours sincerely,

St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

Imogen blinked, dumbfounded at the words. Psychiatric episode? What did that even mean? She hadn't... Wilma couldn't have tried to hurt herself. She wouldn't have done that. The alcohol, that Imogen believed. But Wilma wouldn't do something like that.

Not being able to bear staring at the letter any longer, Imogen had to do something, anything, so she started pulling clothes on, her hands shaking as she did. She shoved her feet into her trainers and, still clutching the letter, left the dormitory. It was so early that the common room was empty, but Imogen could see the evidence of a great party from the night before hadn't been cleaned up by the house elves yet, and bottles and fag butts littered the place.