6:16PM 1/7/1995
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。..·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
ACCORDING TO THE TWINS (so believe them at your own risk), Joey's Quidditch obsession is getting out of hand.
She thinks that's absolutely outrageous. For a start, they're the ones who introduced her to Quidditch, so if anything, it's their fault that the sport gets her blood running marathons. Much to their annoyance, she wasn't half as bad as they'd hoped. And, second of all, they've literally taken her to the Quidditch World Cup, so if anything, they're Doctor Frankenstein, adding fuel to a fire that they ignited in the first place.
'Look at Ryan!' she's screaming, leaning dangerously over the barrier of the Top Box. 'He's amazing! He's incredible! Look at the way he's doing a Starfish and Stick!'
Joey flings out both arms in imitation of Ireland's Keeper, accidentally poking Fred in the eye.
'Blimey, Joeypoos, what're you trying to murder me for?'
'Oh Merlin my love, I'm so sorry!'
'She was just demonstrating a Starfish and Stick!' says George, throwing his own arms wide and deliberately poking his brother in the other eye.
Joey's too engrossed in the Quidditch to notice the twins beginning to scrap beside her. 'Look at Ryan!' she repeats, eyes rapt and enamoured. 'Oh, he's just the best Quidditch player ever! Apart from-'
'-us?' the twins say in unison.
'-Cedric, of course!'
'Ouch, I'm mortally wounded,' says George, clutching his chest.
'Ron will literally jinx you to death if he hears you insulting his precious ickle Krum,' warns Fred.
'Nah, he's too busy staring at Krum's arse to notice.'
Joey isn't listening to them; she's watching dreamily with her eyes shining as Krum executes a perfect Wronski Feint. (She's a Keeper, looking for the Snitch gives her a headache, but she can appreciate a good strategy when she sees one!) 'I wonder what Krum's favourite way to eat an egg is,' she sighs.
George frowns. 'Why the fuck do you want to know that?'
'You can tell a lot about somebody from the way they eat an egg!'
'Yeah,' agrees Fred, nodding fervently. 'Like yours, George, is fried, so that's why your farts are so-'
'- Krum's caught the Snitch!' Joey screams, grabbing Fred's sleeve in shock, just as the Veelas begin their hypnotic dance. He turns to look at her with great difficulty - which she tries not to be offended by. 'Ireland win!'
The twins roar with joy, starting some tribal dance, and Joey knows it's because Bagman is going to give them an enormous amount of Galleons (the three of them pooled their savings, it looks like one of Fred and George's "genius" ideas has finally paid off) but she likes to pretend it's because they share her undying love for Barry Ryan.
A girl can dream, right?
Then she feels a cold, bony hand snatch around her wrist like a shackle, and Joey's pulled back to face the cruel and calculating eyes of Lucius Malfoy.
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.
Or failing that, he'll be sat at the Hufflepuff table, pouring her a goblet of pumpkin juice before she's even sat down. Or, failing that, he'll be sneaking in from the kitchens with two mugs of steaming tea, face hazy through lilac steam.
If Joey tries extra-extra hard, she can convince herself it's normal that George is guiding her towards the Gryffindor table, his hand gentle on the small of her back. She can convince herself it's normal that Lee's glaring at everybody who even breathes in her direction. She can convince herself it's normal that Lola's hair is still pure white.
Or that her own hair, even, accidentally-on-purpose Transfigured by the twins to match theirs, isn't returning to its natural dull mousy brown.
Most of all, Joey can convince herself that it's normal that she's spent every night of the past week sleeping - or at least, attempting to - in Fred's bed.
Sometimes, when she tries, slumber is ripped open by the distraught screams of Amos Diggory. The screaming that had started when the world had stopped. Every time she wakes up choking, the scream rising menacingly in her throat, and every time it's his name on her lips. And every time, without fail, he's come to her, his voice a lullaby, his arms the gentle haven into which she can escape.
(Plus, Charlie sent her a cuddly dragon toy from Romania, so she really is being treated by the Weasley brothers at present.)
If anyone has even dared question the arrangement (which, side note, would've made Joey-of-a-week-ago's heart do a variety of questionable things), then they've wholly regretted it, if the black eye adorning Derek McLaggen's face, courtesy of George, is anything to show for it.
Fred's murmuring something now about inventing a way to permanently give somebody a black eye, and testing it ruthlessly on McLaggen. As she sinks into her seat beside him, Joey clings to his voice as much as she clings to his littlest finger, so tight her nail engraves his skin - yet he doesn't even flinch.
Nearly Headless Nick floats up to them, observing her sombre face. All these never-ending years in the afterlife and still nothing hurts quite like fresh loss. 'Would you like me to do my thing for you, young Johannah?' he asks, motioning towards his head.
(Contrary to popular belief, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington doesn't mind reenacting his beheading - or at least, doesn't mind reenacting it for the girl with the heart of gold, and so much infectious giddiness and compassion it overflows.)
Joey sighs sadly, shaking her head.
'The end of another year,' Dumbledore's saying, and she can't help noticing Fred's jumper sleeve is well above his wrist. They've both grown up a lot this year.
Before Joey can stop herself, her mind's going into overdrive. It's September 1st, 1994, the twins' robes aren't yet scruffy and crinkled as they pull stupid faces at her from across the Hall. Then Dumbledore announces the Tournament and Fred's eyes bulge as wide as his dinner plate, unable to stop himself yelling, 'You're JOKING!'
How she'd laughed, maybe even blushed a little, as he gave her a cocky wink. All triumphant, like, I'm gonna win this fucking thing.
Then, back in this evil July, out of nowhere because she certainly didn't ask for it, comes a horrid nagging thought: You'd much rather Cedric died than your precious Fred. You're such a horrible person. Call yourself his friend.
'Joeypoos, babe, look at me.' Fred's voice sounds like it's submerged in water as she turns, blind and fearful. 'You're gonna cut the blood supply of my finger off, love.'
Guilt cascades through her as she realises her nail's cutting into his pinky, digging deep as a grave. 'I'm so sorry,' she whispers.
'I never said I was complaining about it.' Fred gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head, his smile reassuring. 'I'm here, I promise. And after I lose that one, you still have nine fingers left to squeeze to death. Just for you.'
The benches scrape back with a rumble, like a thunderclap's tearing the world apart, as the students stand as one. Toasting Cedric. Goblets raised in a surrender, almost.
When Joey sits back down, buried alive in Ced's Quidditch jumper, her entire hand is clenched around Fred's, not just her pinky.
'Cedric was a person who exemplified many of the qualities which distinguish Hufflepuff house,' Dumbledore continues, and Joey thinks, Yeah, no shit Dumbledore. The anger in the thought takes her by surprise.
'He was a good and loyal friend, a hard worker, he valued fair play.' Cedric squeezing her waist, calling her sweetheart, as she sobbed after the Yule Ball. No shit, Dumbledore.
'His death has affected you all, whether you knew him well or not.' Cedric serenading an entire classroom with a single laugh. No shit, Dumbledore.
'I think you have the right, therefore, to know exactly how it came about. Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort.' Cedric, just the right height for her to fit perfectly in the crook of his shoulder. No shit, Dumbledore.
'No fucking shit, Dumbledore,' Fred murmurs. Impossibly, Joey almost wants to laugh.
'The Ministry of Magic-'
'-the Ministry of Prats,' George corrects. This time, she really does laugh, spluttering into Fred's shoulder whilst the twins share relieved glances.
'-does not wish me to tell you this.'
Well, they wouldn't, would they? Joey-of-a-week-ago thought that Cornelius Fudge was decent enough, and she was completely in awe of his fashion sense - those lime green bowlers? Now, they're the one thing he has going for him!
'It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric died as the result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory.'
What Joey thinks is a blooming insult to Cedric's memory is the fact that the drapes are black, for Merlin's sake, and not declaring his undying love for Roger.
Who, by the way, is currently sat looking utterly shellshocked at the Ravenclaw table. Joey's eyes meet his, forcing a wan smile as best as she can, and it's the grotesque imitation of one that he returns to her that makes her finally lose it.
'Remember Cedric.' (As if she'll ever forget him, her Quidditch captain. Dumbledore, no offence, is positively geriatric, Joey thinks, if anybody will forget it'll be him. Blooming heck, he clearly forgets to trim his beard.) 'Remember if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right, and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory.'
Joey, remembering her Cedric Diggory more than she can bear, rises as dignified as she can and slips from the Hall.
It's been a week since she's dared set foot in Hufflepuff common room, because the memories are torturing her enough as it is.
She knows it's irrational, it's not like Voldemort himself will be in there waiting for her. (If he is, well, good. Johannah Attlee doesn't have a problem with many people, but she certainly has a bone and a half to pick with him.) But sleeping in Fred's bed, where Cedric - to her knowledge at least - never went, is really the only thing she can manage.
To be honest, Fred and George have been absolute angels. George has even let her win some of their many games of Wizard Chess, and although Joey knows he's just going easy on her, she truly does appreciate the sentiment. She just wishes she didn't feel so guilty about it.
Fred and George Weasley, eternal rays of sunshine, don't need to be drowning in her grief. It's frankly inconsiderate of her.
'As dramatic exits go, I'd definitely give that one an eight for effort.'
Joey glances upwards to see Fred looking so stupidly out of place, leaning against the stone wall underneath where the dangling ivy dances. Besides him, in her ornate frame, Helga Hufflepuff is silently weeping. She turns away from him, because it aches, because it's selfish to still have these blooming feelings when Cedric will never even kiss Roger again.
'I'm so sorry,' she says. 'It's just - it was getting intense in there.'
He chuckles. 'You don't say.'
'His things, Freddie, his clothes...'
'You don't have to do that,' Fred says, understanding immediately. 'Let somebody else.'
Joey pictures Amos' tear-stained face. She clucks her tongue between her teeth. 'No. It has to be me.'
'Joeypoos. You know there was nothing you could've done, right? Please don't tell me you're, I dunno, blaming yourself for this.'
'No, of course not,' she lies, forcing a smile.
(The truth is, she's so wrought with guilt, it flows through her veins alongside her blood.)
She'd be lying if she said seeing Ced's dorm didn't knock the wind out of her. They stand in silence, Joey's grief transcending tears, observing the neatly-laid bed. Her Cedric, with his passion for minimalism and the Ireland Quidditch Team. Her Cedric, with only a framed photo of Roger and the dragon model from the First Task purring on his bedside table.
Cedric with nothing much to show that he was ever here, except his boyfriend and his best friend and everybody else who's been left behind.
Fred reaches for Joey's pinky finger.
So, it goes like this: kneeling down, like some kind of prayer, some kind of sacrifice, and without speaking once, Johannah and Fred begin the ritual of folding away a dead boy's clothes.
WELL, NOBODY SAID 1995 was going to be easy, but Joey would have appreciated some advanced notice, just so she could have prepared herself a little, at least!
Here she stands, waiting for the train, with Cedric's dragon curled up on her shoulder. Watching summer breeze batter the horizon. Seeing his face every time she closes her eyes.
'Jo-han-nah,' comes the gruff voice, yanking her back to a world where he isn't.
'Oh, hello Viktor,' Joey says, forcing a smile. Besides her, Fred and George are nudging each other eagerly, and it reminds her of the nightmare she keeps having, of a time before everything went so utterly pear-shaped. 'It's been lovely to meet you!'
'And you,' Krum says simply. He flashes her a rare smile, causing George's mouth to open so wide there's a chance of flies entering, and the tips of Fred's ears to flush. 'Your Diggory vos alvays nice to me. Alvays. I liked him.'
Me too, she thinks miserably, me flipping too, Viktor.
'He said you vere a good Keeper,' Krum continues, 'I hope perhaps to see you play one day.'
With that he vanishes into a distinctly Cedric-less crowd before Joey can tell him she doesn't think she'll ever be able to fly a broomstick again.
'Joe!' Ivy Thomas is weaving towards her, huge eyes sunken in a tear-stained face. Holding her hand, Pyotr looks numb, his usual grumpy expression hardened and lifeless. 'You will write this summer, won't you, honey?' Ivy's brow is furrowed with worry. 'P's taking me and Dean to Gdynia to see the Grodzisk Goblins. Apparently, their Seeker invented the Wronski Feint?'
I know, Joey thinks, Ceddie told me.
She forces a smile, heaves a sigh, takes Fred's pinky as she boards the Hogwarts Express.
Joey really cannot stress this enough: the last person she wants to see right now, possibly ever, is Linden Lemont. Yet here she is in their compartment on the train, triumphant and smirking, venomous tongue jousting with her older sister's.
'He is back, Dolores!' she's saying gleefully.
'I am aware,' Lola spits back. 'He murdered an innocent boy in cold blood.'
'For the greater good!'
'Calm down, you're not Grindelwald,' Fred mutters.
Linden turns her lizardlike eyes onto the twins. 'I can guarantee you, Weasleys, that you filthy blood traitors will be the first that he will dispose of.'
'Ooo, fwightening,' says George, rolling his eyes.
'Dolores, you have such a rare gift that the Dark Lord will worship you for.'
'Oh, because it is such a tragedy I am not using my Metamorphmagus ability to give myself the Dark Mark,' Lola scoffs.
'Then what, pray tell, is the point of you having such a skill?'
'Because it's sexy and funny as fuck,' Lee says. 'Now go tell someone who actually gives a toss about your fucking dragonshit crazy ideas.'
'Yeah, bog off,' Joey says quietly. Fred squeezes her hand.
'Leave, Linden, do not be a twmffat,' Lola spits.
Joey doesn't know what a twmffat is - it sounds painful in all honesty - but being insulted in her first language appears to do the trick: Linden hisses a contemptuous sentence in poisoned Welsh before storming from the carriage (to loud cheers from Lee).
'Why don't you ask Ethan Rosier if he fancies being a canary again?' Fred calls spitefully after her.
'Gred, that quacked me up,' says George, chuckling.
Lola snorts. 'Canaries do not quack, idiot.'
Fred crosses his arms across his chest. 'Oh yeah? And how do you know that?'
'Have you met every single canary in the world?' George demands.
'Maybe canaries don't quack when there's people around,' Joey pipes up. Her voice is hoarse. 'Maybe they're a little bit shy.'
Fred turns to her, grinning, and plants a swift kiss between her eyebrows. 'You're brilliant when you talk birdy, you are.'
'Aww, where's my kiss Fweddieweddiekins?' says George, fluttering his eyelashes.
'Shut it, Forge.' His twin flips up the middle finger. 'You've gone quackers, Lemont, but we all knew that already.'
'Yeah, bird puns are ducking awesome,' Lee says, giggling.
Lola takes one lingering look at her boyfriend and sighs theatrically. 'Well, toucan play at this game.'
Joey isn't sure what does it. Maybe it's the absurdity of hearing a ridiculous pun in Lola's archaic Welsh accent. Maybe it's the gleeful giggle of Lee, his arm affectionately thrown around his girlfriend's shoulder. Or maybe it's just the heightened tensions of the past week bursting the floodgates at last.
Whatever it is, there's no denying it: Joey starts to laugh, hiccups, snorts and all.
Fred, George and Lee exchange delighted glances, and Lola's hair finally, finally returns to its trademark emerald.
'There's our favourite ugly laugh,' coos George, passing Joey a Fudge Fly in celebration, squeezing her right hand as he does so.
'Knew you had it in you, Joeypoos,' Fred says, running a thumb across her left palm.
All Joey can think is, Here you are, enjoying yourself, when the boy you claimed was your brother slumbers six feet below the ground. Suddenly the laughter's gone as soon as it began, and she buries her face into Fred's shoulder, wishing the outside world to vanish with a pop.
Lifetimes ago, Joey sat cross-legged in a lifeless living room with her twin brother, his eyes rapt as they watched magicians on the old TV. Vanishing rabbits, vanishing hankies, vanishing coins, the whole shebang.
Now, her twin brother's gone, her surrogate brother's gone, both of them apparent experts at the vanishing act (but neither of them, conveniently enough, able to perfect the knack of actually blooming returning to her. Which is wonderful, truly).
'Idon'twantyouguystobefriendswithmeanymore,' Joey says, the words tumbling out faster than she can say them.
George raises both eyebrows. 'Blimey, Joe, what did we do?'
'I'm a muggle-born, it's not safe for you,' she says, and it's only half a lie.
The other reason is that, of course, everyone else she's ever held dear has ended up, well, dead. She has to protect these stupid, wonderful Gryffindors with their bird puns and flames of brilliant hair.
'Listen to me, Attlee, because I am not saying this again.' Lola leans forward so Joey can see the piercing sleeping on her tongue as she speaks. Flashing ominously amongst her almost-pointy teeth. Lola Lemont, toothless and ruthless! 'I am, to quote the darling Ethan Rosier, a blood traitor bitch. Lee is as ridiculously half-blood as they come-'
'- Well, I've never heard you complaining!' Lee bursts out.
'- and as for your Weasleys, well.' Her lips stretch into a smile that isn't a smile at all, more a grimace. 'Attlee, your inner Hufflepuff is coming out, you are nicer than all of us combined, blah blah blah. But you must remember that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wants all of our guts for garters, not just yours.'
There's a heavy suffocating silence, almost as fatal as the "man" they're discussing.
'Bloody hell,' says Fred, because trust Fred to break an awkward silence, honestly. 'It's a bit bleak that he wants to off literally everybody in this compartment, isn't it?'
'Exactly the way I like it,' George says cheerily.
'It's just - it's just his rein of terror has gone on for so long.'
'Well.' Lola purses her lips together, her eyes momentarily flashing red. 'That is because he has not ffycin met me.'
'Lola Lemont, stronger than a hundred men,' Joey says.
Lee shakes his head. 'No. A thousand men.'
'Yeah, Joey,' George says, laughing. 'Don't be a twmffat.'
Fred guffaws. 'Who knew the Welsh spent ninety per cent of their time shagging sheep and the other ten per cent insulting each other?'
Lola seizes a Chocolate Frog and hurls it at Fred's head, where it bounces off the wall behind him and tumbles into Lee's lap. Lee screams, one hand over his eyes so he doesn't have to look at the frog, the other throwing it out of the window.
Finding out about Lee's irrational fear of frogs has probably been Joey's favourite thing this year! She's not kidding.
'Aww, poor frog,' she says.
George snorts. 'Yes, the poor ickle wickle fwoggy.'
'I will have you know, Weasley,' Lola begins, 'that Merlin, whose tits you so frequently speak of and objectify, was Welsh.'
'Merlin's tits, really?' gasps Fred, letting go of Joey's pinky to clasp his chest in shock.
Joey isn't sure what it is, but maybe Dumbledore's speech yesterday has unblocked her, because she finds herself laughing again, so soon after the sweet taste of it just left her lips. Maybe, she thinks, metaphorically speaking, she was like a giant emotional toilet, all blocked up, and Dumbledore came along with a plunger.
(Which, for the record, is an analogy she's never used before and will never use again!)
'What are those three gits up to?'
She follows George's finger to watch Draco Malfoy and his cronies slinking down the corridor, lips curled into malicious grimaces.
'I prefer to use the term wankers,' Fred says darkly, pulling Joey to her feet. 'Coming?'
'Wouldn't miss it for the world,' she replies, and the three redheads leave the carriage.
They find Malfoy, surprise surprise, outside Harry's carriage, because he's got a serious vendetta against Harry for absolutely no reason. It's embarrassing, actually, and Joey almost feels a little sympathetic for the Slytherin.
Then she hears what he's saying, and she doesn't feel sympathetic at all whatsoever.
'Too late now, Potter! They'll be the first to go, now the Dark Lord's back! Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers first! Well - second - Diggory was the f-'
There's an explosion of deafening bangs as Ron, Harry, Hermione and the twins all cast a hex at the same time. Joey's just standing there, reeling, unable to get over how dirtied Cedric's name had been in Malfoy's bitter mouth.
'Thought we'd see what those three were up to, didn't we, Joeypoos?' Fred says matter-of-factly, stepping onto Goyle as he enters the compartment, his pinky still around hers, the other hand clenching his wand.
'Interesting effect,' George says, looking down at Crabbe. One of his hands is resting gently against the small of Joey's back. 'Who used the Furnunculus curse?'
'Me,' Harry says.
'Odd. I used Jelly-Legs. Looks as though those two shouldn't have been mixed. He seems to have sprouted little tentacles all over his face. Well, let's not leave them here, they don't add much to the decor.'
The three Slytherins look absolutely grotesque, but for Joey, the damage still isn't properly done. She can't help feeling like she's betrayed Cedric, because she was the only one who didn't attack - but she hasn't been able to do any magic at all for the past week. Not even when she's tried, whispering 'Lumos' over and over again until her lips felt like they'd bleed.
So she says, 'Hang on Georgie, there's something I need to do.' Everyone watches in stunned silence as she squats down to face the barely-conscious Malfoy.
'I better never hear you say his name again, ever, my love,' Joey says, smiling sweetly, before spitting on his face and slamming the door of the compartment shut.
Fred looks stunned, and Joey knows what he's thinking: Joey-of-a-week-ago would never have done that. But, as they say, desperate times call for desperate measures!
She curls back up beside him without even thinking about it. His arm snakes around her waist and stays there as he pulls out a pack of Exploding Snap cards and begins to shuffle them.
Joey used to love Exploding Snap, with the emphasis on used to. She'd get ridiculously competitive, behaving like a petulant child until she couldn't bear to see her opponent losing, and then she'd deliberately mess up, just so the other person could win.
Now, she just can't face it, and mercifully, Fred and George don't even ask.
She's actually starting to fall asleep, floating away on Fred's shoulder, until the utterance of her own name drags her back to the compartment.
'We tried everything,' Fred's saying. 'Even made him spend time with Joey, because we thought he'd get irritated over how annoyingly nice she is, but he just found her endearing.'
It takes Joey a moment to realise they're talking about Ludo Bagman being useless - which, for the record, she keeps forgetting about because it's such a minor inconvenience compared to you-know-what.
In all honesty, Joey's heart is just too tired to care about Bagman at this point.
'That's because I am endearing, Freddie,' she says, eyes still shut.
'But that was all your savings! And Joey's!' Ron gasps, mouth agape.
'Tell me about it,' George says. 'And we were saving to buy Joey a new broom.'
'What?' Joey sits up. 'You were?'
George nods. 'That was all Fred's idea.' He scoffs. 'Surprise.'
She turns wordlessly to Fred, whose ears have flushed a careful shade of magenta as his eyes almost avoid hers. 'Honestly, guys, it's fine. My broom is fine.'
And probably never to be used again, anyway.
'No, it's not bloody fine, Joeypoos,' Fred says. His tone is so iffy, she thinks, almost angry, and he still won't look her in the eye. 'Your broomstick looks like a branch somebody snapped off the Whomping fucking Willow.'
Joey doesn't know what to say to that, because she's so overwhelmed with gratitude, so she just returns to fiddling with Charlie's dragon toy for the duration of the journey.
They're just about to get off the train, preparing for the scariest summer of their lives, as Harry Potter proves himself to be nothing short of angelic.
'Fred - George - Joey - wait a moment.'
They turn and Harry shoves his Triwizard winnings into their hands. 'Take it.'
'What?' Fred and Joey say in stunned synchrony.
'Take it. I don't want it.'
'You're mental,' George says, shoving away the sack.
'No, I'm not. You take it, and get inventing. It's for the joke-shop.'
'He is mental,' Fred mutters, his tone dripping with awe.
'Harry, we can't...' Joey begins.
'Listen. If you don't take it, I'm throwing it down the drain. I don't want it and I don't need it. But I could do with a few laughs. We could all do with a few laughs. I've got a feeling we're going to need them more than usual before long.'
Joey sits back down, stunned.
'Harry,' George is saying, 'there's got to be a thousand Galleons in here.'
'Yeah. Think of how many Canary Creams that is.'
'Or Pineapple Parrots,' Joey says, freaking out.
'Harry.'
'Look, take it, or I'll hex you. I know some good ones now. Just do me one favour, OK? Buy Ron some different dress robes, and say they're from you.' He turns to Joey. 'I know Cedric would've wanted you to have it.'
'I - I can't,' she mutters. 'I don't - I don't even need a new broomstick, anyway.'
'Cedric would never have forgiven us if we didn't get you one, you tit,' Fred says. 'And I mean that in the nicest way possible.'
'Yeah but,' she begins weakly, 'I - I'm not even on your team.'
'That Bluebottle you're riding is a liability to everybody on the pitch,' Harry says with a snort, leaving the compartment.
The three of them just stare at each other, dumbstruck. Then -
'Holy fucking shit!' George yells, grabbing Joey and spinning her around.
'Holy fucking shit!' Fred agrees, throwing her into the air.
'Holy flipping sugar,' she says, still in shock, wishing more than anything that Cedric was there to see them celebrating right now.
Or that Cedric was just there. Full stop.
Out on the platform Joey's greeted by the same pinched sour-lemon face that's been haunting her nightmares; the same face that currently lies covered in hex marks on the Hogwarts Express.
At the sight of Lucius the twins start giggling uncontrollably. 'Your hair's looking luscious, Lucius!' Fred says. Malfoy's eyes narrow.
'Yeah, what shampoo do you use? I must know!' George continues, winking.
He looks straight past them and instead stares at Joey. His glare is white-hot, burning and freezing as it chills her to the very bone, and she wavers but she refuses to look away.
'Johannah,' he says, indulging in the word like it's a luxury, and she hate hate hates it. 'Perhaps, with the death of Diggory, you have finally come to your senses.'
Joey frowns. 'Um, excuse me?'
'Maybe you are starting to reevaluate where your loyalties lie,' he says coldly, closing in on her until the only thing between them is hatred. 'After all, you are not as Mudblood as you think you are.'
That's the line that sends shivers sprinting all the way down her core.
Joey's conscious of Fred tensing beside her. She places a warning hand on his chest, mutters, 'No, Freddie.'
Lucius reaches into the pocket of a velvet robe and retrieves a scrap of parchment, which he hands to her. It's not the cheap stuff she and the twins use, but thick and creamy and Joey knows whatever it reads cannot be a good omen.
'Matthew. And now Cedric. Oh dear, oh dear,' Lucius murmurs, twisting the knife right where it hurts.
That's when, flanked by the twins with Fred curling a finger around her pinky, she says something that Joey-of-a-week-ago would never have even dreamed of. Never even comprehended, even.
But Joey-of-a-week-ago died with Cedric Amos Diggory, and the girl who's left behind is picking up all the pieces. (And the girl who's left behind has had enough of mind-games courtesy of an anaemic-looking supremacist.)
'Fuck off, Malfoy,' Joey says.
She lets George's hand on the small of her back guide her away, towards two people she's never been more grateful to see in her entire life.
'Bill,' Joey says, stumbling towards him and then running.
'Hey, Annie,' the oldest Weasley brother murmurs, hugging her so tight it's like he's terrified of letting go. 'My Annie. Shh, shh.'
'Um, hello? Your actual sibling over here?' Fred grouches.
'Blimey, Fred, you'd think we were nothing to them,' says George, blinking back faux tears.
'All I want is to go home,' Joey whispers.
Bill nods. 'I know, I know. But there's something you should know... Fred, are you gonna tell her or shall I?'
'Tell me what?' she says, suddenly wary.
Fred sighs. His jaw is set. 'I hope you're in the mood for an extended stay in London.'
'Why?'
'Johannah, we're not going home this summer.'
It's only later, in the rental car, that Joey remembers the parchment given to her so lovingly by Lucius Malfoy.
It's only later, as she reads it again and again whilst her world comes crashing down, that Joey knows she's not a Muggle-born.
And the possibility of what she is - or rather, what she could be - lurches up and strangles her.
Johannah,
Did your father never teach you that it is rude to keep a Lord waiting? I am impatient for you to join me.
But you must know that by now, mustn't you?
A/N
aaaaaaand that's a wrap on act one!!! yay:)
i'm so ridiculously excited to get to grimmauld place it's gonna be very exciting and SOMEONE belonging to bloodquills may or may not make an appearance holy shit!!!!
hope u guys enjoyed this act, i love everything and all your support means the world<333
love, nolan : )