AMOR FATI . . . fred weasley

XI. LOOKIN' LUSCIOUS, LUCIUS !

It stuns her just how icy his hand is, almost bitterly so, like the snarl on his lip and the glint in his snake-like eyes. Joey scarcely remembers the moment she saw the Basilisk that lurked in the heart of Hogwarts, thankfully (reflected in her bathwater, but she doesn't like to talk about that), but she knows it must have borne an uncanny resemblance to the man sneering at her now.

'Um, hello?'

'Tell me, Johannah,' Malfoy breathes. His voice is dangerously gentle, yet it seeps with malice somehow. She doesn't know how he knew her name, but she hates the way it sounds in his mouth. 'How is your father lately? And that brother of yours - oh, what's his name? Maximilian? Matthias?'

Matthew.

'Excuse me, I'm really sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about,' Johannah says, feeling the fear eating her up inside.

'Oh, dear, I wish you wouldn't lie to me.' Then faux concern spreads across his face like wildfire. 'You do know who I am, don't you?'

Joey glances upwards and she doesn't see Fred or George but Matthew, on the night he died because of her, his face so fragile and paperthin you can see the terror coursing through. He's leaning over the barrier, and she throws out a desperate hand but it's too late; he topples over (her fault), his body like a paper doll, sailing lifelessly through the air (her fault).

Except his face changes on the way down, hazelnut eyes melting into silver, until it's Cedric's. And that's even worse. Because even his death feels like Joey's fault, as much as Matthew's still does.

She screams, no longer sure which one she's screaming for. All the while, Cedric keeps on falling.

IT'S KIND OF IRONIC, Joey thinks, that the one year Hufflepuff drapes would definitely have been on display in the Hall, they're replaced by velvet black.

It's a mark of respect for Cedric, she knows, only she can't help thinking it isn't what he would've really wanted: she imagines banners with the words I LOVE ROGER DAVIES or I'M FUCKING OBSESSED WITH QUIDDITCH emblazoned across them would have been much more appropriate.

Not that the drapes even mean anything to her. For all Joey knows, Dumbledore could have been listening to some moody music, or maybe he'd let Snape in charge of the interior design. Acknowledging it's for Cedric is acknowledging he's gone, and for the past week, that's been the one thing Joey has not been able to do.

The fourth task, it transpires, is the hardest: accepting every second that she's living, he's not. Who knew?

(Well, she's not accepting it. So yes, Joey's doing absolutely fine and dandy, thank you for asking.)

It's also ironic that merely a week ago, she would have felt like she was drowning if every single pair of eyes in the Hall were hawkishly upon her. She would've been unable to take it, hiding in her favourite toilet with the agony-aunt mirror, until one of the twins or Cedric coaxed her out with a gentle word and maybe a Fudge Fly.

Now, Joey-of-a-week-ago could never have existed, for all she cares. As she hovers hesitantly in the entrance of the Hall, mentally preparing herself for the Leaving Feast, she feels the weight of a thousand eyes and embraces them - anything, she'll go through absolutely anything if it'll make Cedric come back.

Losing one brother is hellish enough. Losing two is incomprehensible, so much so that Joey refuses to believe the truth at all. In fact, she's still expecting to turn the corner and see him there, sleeves rolled up to reveal bronze forearms in all their glory, wand raised for a Tickling Hex.