𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎. fred weasley

𝚡𝚡𝚒𝚒𝚒. 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚜

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     Imagine a little boy.

     He's young, with dark brown hair shaggy on his head that's sticking up in all directions, for he refuses to get a haircut no matter how much his mum pesters him. When he smiles, there are gaps in his teeth and there is sunshine in his eyes, blinding but so beautiful to look at. His face is spattered with freckles, each a rich, caramel color that contrasts with the paleness of his complexion.

     He runs through fields of daisies, grass sifting through his bare feet and sun beating down on his face, making it glimmer with sweat and happiness. He runs, and his feet carry him and there's a smile on his face as he tries to catch his sister, tries to snag her wrist, grip her shoulder, anything to halt her, to keep her in place for one moment. His body is swimming with adrenaline, the wind making him weightless, like he was soaring instead of running, his feet gliding through the soft tendrils of green, his arms grazing the silky petals of the daisies, the firm stems.

     This boy is young and he's carefree and he catches his sister and she squeals and she says it's unfair but there's a smile on her face as she throws her head back to laugh and they're both so young and they've never experienced anything other than the euphoria of being here, present in the world and so, so alive.

     But then the euphoria is gone, replaced with a sinking cold feeling that floats at the core of his stomach, makes him fall to the earth with a shattering quickness, the impact harsh, groundbreaking as he feels his mouth part in a scream that's stuck in his throat. He wants to jump in and get her, knows he needs to, but his body is struck with fear, immobile, limbs numb as he stands there, watching the rapids take her under, again and again, her screams turning into frightened sobs as she floats farther and farther down the river.

     They went too far. He knows this. He knows that Mum told them not to venture to the creek, to never stray from the path, but his curiosity swelled until it was shoving away all the practicality in his mind and they were walking on the bank of the creek, rocks slipping into the crevices of their shoes as they mucked about. It was going okay, there were no mishaps yet, and he thought maybe he could do this, watch out for the both of them and make sure they both made it home okay, but then his sister's foot slipped as she tried to jump from one rock to another and everything was shattered.

     Now, he's running down the bank, eyes misty with unshed tears because he doesn't deserve the right to cry; it's his fault, he should have been more attentive, more aware and cautious. He should have done something when she fell in, should have reached for her, jumped into the rapids himself, but he seized up, his body tense and he hates himself for that.

     He hates hearing her strangled sobs, her gasps for air as she fights against the creek, fights against the water. The sun beats down on his back and he runs, and he yells, shouts, for his mum for anyone to hear them. He shouts until his throat is raw with exertion, until he can hear his mum's concerned cries calling back for him, until she comes, wand in hand and gets his sister out of the creek, where she was getting weaker, her arms giving and her body going limp as the fight in her wore out.