𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎. fred weasley

𝚡𝚡𝚒𝚒. 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚎

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Snow trickles to the ground in a shower of icy tendrils. The cold wind frosts up the windows like Jack Frost sneaking through villages, a mischievous smirk on his face as he nips at the children's noses and at the pure, clear glass of windows.

Owls, speckled with greys — solid with blacks and whites and tawny browns — fly past the window, hooting with wings spread wide as they soar through the blizzard. In the distance, pearly crystals of snow coat the trees, making the forest white and serene, like a painting that's moving with delicacy.

Cress stares out the window and longs with the feeling to be out there. Cedric sniffles into his pillow and refuses to say anything, even as Cress sighs out, pointedly and a little threateningly — since he's been refusing to say a word since he snatched her before she could go to breakfast and took her up to his dorm, throwing himself onto his bed before she could even collect herself.

That was twenty minutes ago.

She's still waiting for his explanation. And it better be good or else he's going to end up with a right hook to the jaw.

He groans into his pillow and then proceeds to beat it with his fist as though he has a personal vendetta against the fluffy thing. Cress sighs through her nose and takes a seat on Hamlin's bed. Perhaps, she can wait him out, let him finish with his little tantrum or whatever and then have him explain what the hell is going on.

Uma the Dragon sits comfortable on her shoulder. Cedric continues wailing like a banshee into his pillow (yes, she's overexaggerating, but sue her, she's hungry). Cress wonders what went wrong.

After a few more moments of his overbearing tears (Cress doesn't even know if he's actually crying since she can't see his face, but she's going to guess he is; Cedric always cries), she says, "Okay, what in fuck's name happened? Why are you rubbing snot into your pillow so viciously?"

Cedric sniffles loudly, pulling his face out of his pillow so Cress can see that, yes, he was crying. His eyes are blood red, veiny and there are bags under them — as though he hasn't slept all night. Cress bites her lip to keep from frowning.

"Cedric," she says softly, standing and walking over to him. "Oh god, Cedric, what happened?"

"I—" Cedric sighs, chokes up a little and then fiddles with a sweatshirt that must be Hamlin's. Only Hamlin would wear a bright orange sweatshirt. "I. . . I messed up, Cress. I messed up bad."

Cress takes a moment to absorb the brokenness of his voice, the way he's curled in on himself, holding onto Hamlin's sweatshirt as though it's his only lifeline, and she thinks, oh, no. Cedric sits beside her, seemingly small even though he towers over her by a good bit. Cress sighs, feeling heartbroken seeing her proud brother reduced to tears.