Bad Decisions | Fred Weasley

Thirty-Six: Memento Mori

It was still dark when Sylvia woke up, the strange early hours of the morning where it wasn't pitch black anymore, everything colored a deep cold blue like night scenes in silent films, a filter put over the daylight. She thought she was having sleep paralysis, but it was different, her body moved on it's own, reflexively sitting up. Something had woken her up, the thin white flash of a memory oscillating in the back of her head, right at the base of her skull. A zoetrope with missing frames, making the scene jump erratically as she watched it. It was freezing and every hair on her body seemed to stand on end.

"Fred!" She whispered, her breath coming out in shallow bursts. She swore she could see it fogging in front of her. She reached out, feeling for his body. His hand found hers and he lifted himself onto his elbow, blinking away the stupor of sleep.

"What? What is it?" His voice was thick and slurred slightly.

Sylvia held on to his hand as hard as she could, like if she let go she'd forget, "Fred there was another person."

He cleared his throat, blinking hard to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness, "Hm?"

She couldn't move her eyes, staring directly at the mirror leaned up against the wall across from the bed. The reflection of the moonlight against her face made her look ghostly, a wandering spirit who couldn't leave the house until her death was avenged.

"There was a third person, the night of the wedding, wasn't there?"

"What -- uh, yes. In a mask." He rubbed at his eye, looking up at her, "Syl, are you okay?"

"I remember," her voice wavered, "Fred, it was Quentin."

Fred sat up now, his eyebrows pulled together in concern. He squeezed her hand.

"Sylvie, what's going on?"

She looked at him then. His eyes widened and his spine straightened, she could only guess how insane she looked. She could feel each and every inch of her brain working, hanging onto those images like a projector skipping tears in sprocket holes, trying not to burn through the film until it was nothing but white light shining on the blank wall of her skull.

"I'm sure of it. I don't know how I remember now, but I do. He was the one who Obliviated me. He knew I was here."

Fred just swallowed, looking between Sylvia's eyes. His lips pursed and he waited for her to continue. She wasn't sure if he wanted her to.

"Legilimency didn't work." She furrowed her brow and turned to look at her feet, chewing into her bottom lip, "That's why they used Crucio on me."

"But why'd they erase your memory of it all?" Fred asked in a low voice.

A shiver ran down her shoulders. Her hand shot up to run through her hair instinctually, "I don't know."

"How do you know it was Quentin?"

"His voice. The man with the scars — Iain. He called him Callis. I thought he was talking to me at first, but then I felt his hand on my shoulder. He said 'obliviate', I'm sure of it."

She looked back at him and a feeling of clarity cooled her brain the way waves wash away sand on a beach. She wasn't scared or angry or sad. It just was. The tide pulled the feelings away and she was left with him. Her hands held his face and she found the shine of his eyes in the darkness.

"Sylvie." He said in a sympathetic tone, his fingers reaching up to touch her cheek.

She recognized what it was, the lightness in her chest and shoulders and head. It was relief. She exhaled and explored every detail of Fred's face with her eyes, her fingers hovering over his lips. He looked back at her patiently, allowing her to bask in the emptiness for a moment.