A caterpillar was crawling along the windowsill when Sylvia woke up. It was still dark outside, the thin blue haze of early morning just beginning to pour into the bedroom. She reached out her hand from under the covers, letting the little furry body crawl across her finger and back onto the dark wooden grain before inching out the cracked window.
Her whole body ached, like she had done a triathlon the night before. She shifted, tried to turn onto her back and stretch her limbs, but was met with bones so stiff she could hardly move without streaks of pain running up and down her body. Her mouth tasted metallic, bloody.
"Ow..." she groaned to herself, managing to lift an arm to rub out a knot in her neck.
There was a weight on her stomach, a body next to hers. Fred's arm stretched across her abdomen, his breath steady and quiet in her ear. She lifted his hand and slipped out from under the covers, sitting on the edge of the bed. Standing, she took a moment to balance herself against the wall. Her hip locked and she bent slightly, cracking it back into place with a loud pop. She winced, padding her way laboriously across the room.
The bathroom light had been left on. She turned it off immediately, the thin line of a headache stabbing at her temple. She tried not to look at herself in the mirror right away, hoping she didn't look as bad as she felt, but she couldn't help it.
She could only make out so much in the dim light, but she was sure now that something was wrong. A blood vessel had burst in her right eye, filling the outer half of the whites with red. And still, it wasn't her eye that alarmed Sylvie the most. It was the shock of silver that ran down the fringe framing the left side of her face. She combed her fingers through the streak, inspecting the roots at her hairline, all of which had turned a bright white.
Someone was walking down the hallway, floorboards creaking below their bare feet, and she closed the bathroom door. She waited for them to pass, but the steps halted outside, a soft knock rapped against the door.
"Sylvie?" They whispered.
She let out a sigh through her nose, reluctantly cracking the door open, just enough to allow Fred to peek through.
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah," she scratched at her nose, "I'll just be a minute."
He didn't move.
"Go back to bed," she whispered, inching the door closed. He didn't push back, but he tried to speak again, just as the latch clicked.
"Syl—"
With her head rested against the door, she could hear him let out a tight sigh, hesitating before retreating back to his room.
She stayed in the bathroom for nearly half an hour, brushing her teeth, swishing her mouth with water from the sink and spitting it back out, pink with blood. She tilted her head back and pulled at her cheek with a finger, looking for any injuries in the mirror, but couldn't find any. She sat on the edge of the tub and stared at her toes, traced her finger over the little scars on her knees she'd gotten as a kid. Only when she began to droop with sleepiness did she finally return to Fred's room.
Her footsteps were light and quick as she hurried over to the bed, facing away from him and pulling the covers up to her nose. Her chest ached at the thought of him there, knowing he was awake too, waiting to speak or for her to speak first.
"Are you sure you're okay?" He finally asked, whispering to the ceiling.
"Mhm," she hummed. It came out thin and wavering from the back of her throat, far from convincing.
"You probably don't remember much, do you?"
She didn't reply, looking straight ahead at the window, waiting for another caterpillar to crawl in.
"We think they uh ... obliviated you." He swallowed, "Which may have actually been a courtesy, considering the state they left you in."
She could hear him sniff and the softness in his voice, a little bitter breath of a sarcastic laugh when he spoke.
"I don't know why they chose you to put a Cruciatus on but... they did. You know when they left, we found you passed out and nearly choking to death on your own blood."
She wanted to turn around, to look him in the eye when he told her what had happened, but she couldn't move. Her limbs felt stiff and numb at the same time, like if she moved even the tiniest muscle, the pain would be too unbearable.
"Mum fixed your tongue. You'd almost bit it clean off, you know?" He cleared his throat, "We figure the hair and eye are from the stress."
There was a moment of silence, the air thick with tension. Sylvia closed her eyes against the cold air from the window.
"What's the last thing you remember?" He asked.
She swallowed, taking a deep breath, "I remember being taken into the workshed... and the man telling me his name was Iain. That's it, I think."
He cleared his throat and she heard the crinkle of the pillow case as he nodded his head.
"Are you angry with me?" She whispered so quietly, she was surprised he heard it.
Fred sat up, "What? No — Sylvie." He placed his hand on her shoulder, "Why would I be angry with you?"
"You sound angry."
"I'm angry with them. Sylvie," he repeated, "why would I be angry with you?"
She swallowed and felt the sting of tears behind her eyes, "I don't know. Because I came back."
He pulled at her shoulder, urging her to face him, "Look at me."
Reluctantly, she turned onto her back, pressing the heels of her hands into her closed eyes before dropping them by her sides, looking over to Fred.
"I'm not going back to school." She said.
Fred hesitated. His face dropped and he took in a deep breath as he closed his eyes and let his head fall back. When he opened them again, he stared into the corner of the room, lips pursed and eyes blank.
A bitter feeling yanked at Sylvia's stomach and she sighed, trying to suppress a groan of annoyance.
"Now I've made you angry." She muttered under her breath, sitting back up and easing her legs over the side of the bed.
"What?" Fred asked, watching her put her glasses back on and rub at her temple.
She sighed, feeling like a creaky old lady as she shuffled over to the wardrobe, "Nothing."
"Sylvie." She could see him there, running a hand over his face out of the corner of her eye, "Why, for the love of god, don't you want to go back to school?"
There weren't any shirts in her drawer, so she turned to dig through the hamper for one that could be worn another day. Buried only under a pair of trousers was Fred's tee shirt, the one she was wearing last night, a heather blue stained with stiff deep purple at the collar. She pretended to ignore it, continuing to sift further into the dirty clothes.
"Because there's a fucking war going on here." She said, yanking out a tank top, effectively spilling out a small explosion of socks onto the floor.
Fred huffed a laugh, "Isn't that exactly why you should go?"
Sylvia dressed despite the early hour, pulling Fred's old quidditch jacket over her shoulders and untucking her hair.
"Fred," She said in a stiff voice as she hopped to slip on her socks, "I'm not going to leave the country just so I can worry about what's happening here."
"You have three years left."
"It'll just be a gap year."
"I think you should go back."
She stood at the foot of the bed and pressed down on the knot in her neck.
"Fred. I've already decided. I don't have to live here if you don't want me to, but I already talked to Remus and I'm joining the Order."
It wasn't an outright lie. She had spoken to him the other night at the wedding, while he refilled her champagne glass and told her Tonks was pregnant.
"I've been thinking," She'd said, noticing how skimpy Remus was being with the champagne, "And it's okay if you don't want me -- but, I'd like to join the Order."
"I thought you were still in university. In New York, right?" He replied, putting his hands in his trouser pockets.
"I am. I want to take a year off."
Remus nodded his head and scratched his jaw in thought, "I'll have to talk to the others, but I don't see why you wouldn't be a welcome addition."
"You already talked to Remus?" Fred clarified, eyebrows knit in concern, "Why didn't you say anything to me?"
Frustration grew in Sylvia's chest, tightening her throat and tickling her tear ducts. She ran a hand through her hair nervously.
"I don't know, I don't know, I—" She sighed with a shiver, "I only spoke to him at the wedding. I was going to tell you today anyways, I just didn't want to say anything until I was sure. Look, I'm gonna go for a walk. Just go back to bed okay? We can talk about it later."
He held the side of his head in his hand, propped up against a bent knee as he blinked at her, mouth slightly agape. He watched her edge towards the door.
"I just need some air. I'll be back in a minute."
The house was cool and quiet, every step she took town the stairs creaking back at her in resistance. It smelled damp and cold and there were thick patches of fog that rolled over the hills outside. Sylvia's shoes became wet with dew as she stepped onto the lawn, and grass stuck to the white rubber toes. She crossed her arms against the chill.
"Hey."
She turned around. George was walking towards her, hands in the pockets of his grey sweatshirt.
"Can't sleep?" She asked.
He nodded, "I'm surprised you're up. Thought you'd be snoring it off until noon."
George looked weathered, heavy bags under his red-rimmed eyes. She doubted he had slept at all. Feigning a smile, she flicked the hair out of her face and touched her chin to her shoulder.
"You like my new look?"
He grinned, "If beat-up-video-girl is what you're going for, then yeah."
"Video girl," she crossed her arms, squinting her eyes at the term, "I'll take it as a compliment?"
George shrugged, but his smile grew, "You look cool, honestly."
She scoffed, "Thanks. Guess I didn't have much choice, huh?"
He furrowed his brows, but continued to grin, "You're very high-spirited. Considering."
"I figure if I can't remember it, and I don't feel completely awful, might as well live with it, right?"
A small flicker of something solemn passed over George's face, like a stream of light reflected off water. He kept his smile plastered diligently on his face, but concern brewed behind his eyes. Sylvia felt guilty, so she took a quick breath.
"What happened? After I passed out?"
He scratched at his jaw, the morning scruff making him look years older, and sighed through his nose.
"They left right away. You almost bit your tongue off, you know?"
"Fred told me." She grimaced.
"I don't know why, but you were the only one they really did anything to... physically, I mean." His voice dropped off at the end, tentative around his wording, "The head guy used Legilimency on all of us and that was it."
She nodded and chewed on the inside of her cheeks.
"Didn't bother to burn the house down this time." George scoffed.
"What?"
He raised an eyebrow slightly, "Didn't you know?"
Sylvia shook her head, stepping closer to him.
"Lestrange came looking for Harry. Set the whole house on fire on Christmas Day."
"This last Christmas?"
He nodded.
"Jesus."
"Fred didn't tell you?"
She chewed on the inside of her bottom lip, looking back toward the shed.
"I think he was kind of..." she shrugged, trying to find the right words, "avoiding getting too touchy-feely with me then."
George snorted, "All he wanted to do was get touchy-feely with you."
"I'm serious," she said in a thin voice, hugging her arms closer to her chest. And still, a small smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.
"So am I." George said, "You know he asked you to be his girlfriend at the New Year's party."
"How did you know that?"
"He told me."
She closed her eyes for a moment, embarrassed of the reminder, "I thought he didn't mean it."
George didn't respond, and when she looked over to him, self-deprecating grimace twisting at her brow, he just raised an eyebrow. Not in a condescending or judgmental way. It was the way only George would raise an eyebrow, kind and understanding, allowing the space for her to elaborate without contention. Sylvia wet her lips and blinked hard, shifting her gaze to the ground as she kicked her high-tops back and forth against the grass.
"All throughout school he was so hesitant, you know? We were practically dating already and he knew I wanted it to be 'official' or whatever. I never said anything, so that's my own fault. But still. He was very good at stepping around commitment."
She cleared her throat and swallowed hard, feeling a quiver try to escape her breath.
"I assumed he was joking when he asked," she looked back up to him now, "He never mentioned it again after that, anyways."
George shook his head slightly, "You two will be the death of me."
Sylvia furrowed her brow.
"Sylvie," George said through a small laugh, "You've been sleeping in his bed in his parent's house for three months. If you aren't girlfriend and boyfriend, I'd be surprised to hear what exactly it is you think you are."
She met his gaze, squinting her eyes against the glow that was just beginning to breach the horizon. Neither spoke, but a mutual understanding was apparent in the silence. They watched the field of tall grass glow like it was being set on fire in the sunlight.
Sylvia tucked the corner of her mouth in.
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to make every conversation about me and Fred."
"I know." George smiled, "It's rarely an uninteresting topic though."
Fred couldn't eat. Molly had made enough breakfast for at least double the number of people who sat at the kitchen table, and almost none of it was eaten. Bill and Fleur completely passed, not even bothering to sit down and push food around on their plates, and instead announced that they'd, reluctantly, be leaving the Burrow. It wasn't like them to leave the family at a time like this, but Fred figured his parents had convinced them to continue on their honeymoon.
Sylvia was working tirelessly to get him to reciprocate any display of affection possible. Her hand resting on his thigh, foot bumping against his ankle, trying desperately to make eye contact, all of which was essentially ignored. He couldn't help it. When her hand squeezed at his knee, he felt himself recoil, a tugging at his abdomen towards his spine. She'd twisted and clipped her hair back in an attempt to mask the streak of white, which made him unreasonably uncomfortable. He sniffed and listened to his father talk.
"I've sent Ron a patronus, letting them know we're safe..."
Fred was hardly listening. Too many thoughts were crowding his head, each trying to gain priority over another. He had no way of knowing if his own brother was safe. Ron was god-knows-where for god-knows-how-long being followed by Death Eaters, the ministry had fallen, his family was interrogated via Legilimency the night before, Sylvia had been under a Cruciatus curse then Obliviated, he had a headache, his brother and sister-in-law were leaving, George was staring at him from across the table, Sylvia's foot kept hitting his ankle, his mother kept sighing, Ginny was scraping her fork against her plate, his father's voice was beginning to annoy him.
He pushed his chair out from the table, clearing his throat quietly as he stood. Filling a glass of water at the sink, he stared out the window and pretended to listen. A caterpillar had made its way inside. It was small and fuzzy, brownish-red, inching along the chipping white rail. Fred leaned forward, pushed the window open, and watched it crawl out.