Bad Decisions | Fred Weasley

Thirty-Four: Whip-Smart

Sylvia's boot was stuck in the mud. Right behind the house, just before the pathway leading to the side of the side door. Her foot sunk all the way down, sucked in up past her ankle. She could see the white edge of her socks turning brown as mud seeped in like blood. Fred and George were laughing, on the verge of tears, giggling every time she tried to tug herself out only to feel the ground suction to her foot and pull her further in.

"Stop laughing and help me." She said, trying not to sound as annoyed as she was. She didn't know exactly why she was annoyed, but she had to hold herself back from snapping at the two of them, from sending seething glares their way while they acted like it was the funniest thing they'd ever seen.

"Isn't there a fucking spell for this?" She said mostly to herself, the volume of her voice raising slightly at the end. It was enough to shut the boys up. She tugged once more with all her might, only to hear the ground lurch beneath her and suck her another two inches deeper. She could feel them exchanging a glance. "Before you say anything, yes, I am on my period and I do not feel like hearing any bloody quips from either of you. So don't even think about saying anything snarky right now."

She finally looked up at them and they both raised their hands in unison surrender, eyebrows raised and lips sealed. Huffing a quick sigh through her nose, her eyes flicked between them impatiently.

"Are you going to stand there like a couple idiots or are you going to help me?"

George scoffed, and opened his mouth to throw back some word of retort, but Fred spoke before he could, smiling knowingly at Sylvie as he stepped towards her.

"Come on George, don't want to look like a couple of idiots, do we?"

He put one of her arms around his neck and George reluctantly did the same. They lifted her with relative ease, and the three of them stumbled back slightly, watching as the mud ate Sylvia's right shoe, leaving her foot dressed only in a white sock, the ankle brown and wet. She wanted to cry, watching it get swallowed whole like a bog body, left to become preserved for hundreds of years until it would be found by some archaeologist who would display this lone boot in a museum along with the other odds and ends lost in the mud.

"My boot," she croaked. 

This was a particularly bad month. It felt like someone had grabbed an ovary in each fist and was squeezing and twisting them like stress balls, every once in a while delivering a kick to her uterus, just for fun. She was surprised she hadn't been meaner towards the twins. She laid in bed for the rest of the day, curled into a fetal position, holding a pillow against her stomach as she drifted in and out of sleep. She slept through dinner and only woke up when Fred came in well past dark.

"A right sight you are," he said as he leaned down to pull her hair from her face, receiving a groan of pain in return, "Well at least we know you aren't pregnant."

This coaxed a tight chuckle from Sylvia, just enough to bring a smile to her lips as she hugged the pillow closer. One more cramp, she thought, and she'd tear it in half. She closed her eyes and felt Fred sit on the bed, his hand still lingering near her face, brushing back her hair over her shoulder and behind her ear. She let out a long sigh and blindly reached out, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down to her. He laughed, a low hum at the back of his throat as he propped his elbow up next to her, their chests touching when she moved onto her back. His lips were warm and dry, and he kissed her gently, her mouth, her jaw, that spot right below her ear, down her neck, pressing his lips into her hot skin. She moved the pillow from between them and used her knee to guide him on top of her, holding his hips between her legs.