Who: Ciara Fawcett and Grace Jordan What: Dealing with the many photos Ciara left behind when going to the Halloween party When: Backdated to whenever that was, the 29th I think? Where: Ciara's flat in Dublin Warnings: Just melodrama. Status: Complete!
Ciara hadn’t exactly forgotten about the state of her apartment. She’d just shuffled it out of her mind, locked it up, and then there were costumes and alcohol and karaoke – so much karaoke – and by the time it was time to go home it was covered up by so much Not Thinking About It that she didn’t even hesitate when Grace insisted on taking her home.
Or if it was the other way around. Ciara wasn’t really sure. They were both pretty drunk, and if she was worse, well. There was no way she’d admit to it. Until tomorrow, anyway.
“You know what we didn’t do?” she said to Grace, struggling to unlock the door with a very stubborn key. “We didn’t eat nearly enough creepy things. Like, you know. Those… what were those? That I made last year? They were…”
She stopped, trying to remember the end of the sentence. After a minute or so Grace grabbed the keys from her, picking the right one from the bunch and unlocked the door. They both stumbled inside, slipping on one of the many pictures littering most horizontal surfaces in the small flat, and hit the wall. Which also seemed to have attracted a few copies of the picture she’d run from, only a few hours earlier.
“Oh,” Ciara said. “Right.”
Grace has been mid laughter, the answer to Ciara’s question on the tip of her tongue as they spilled into the familiar flat.
The answer died there.
“Ciara,” Grace breathed, the shock of the photos sobering her faster than an actually punch to the gut. She gaped, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. “What --”
“I tried to destroy them,” Ciara said, the reality of what she’d walked back into knocking the drunkenness right out of her. “They multiply when you do that. It was just one at first, I just… I panicked.”
She crossed the room, shovelled a few pictures off the couch and sinking down on it, trying not to look at any of them, which was difficult. They were everywhere. “I don’t think it’s him, though. I can’t imagine… you know. That they’d let someone waltz out to Azkaban to do this to him just to send me this? But, yeah. This is a thing now.”
Grace swallowed hard, limply taking one off the wall. Her uncle stared back at the camera miserably; the clown makeup painted across his face was grotesque.
It’s Halloween, smile!
The edges of the photo crushed in her fist.
“It’s happened before?”
“Once,” Ciara said, nodding. Tears were burning underneath her eyelids, but she refused to let them fall. That was dramatic. She couldn’t be dramatic, not when her dad was in Azkaban. What was this compared to what he had to endure? “That time it wasn’t an owl. They broke in. I had the wards strengthened after, obviously.”
And you didn't tell me? Grace wanted to say, but recognizing that it was a statement very much not needed right now, she kept her mouth shut and gathered Ciara in for a tight hug.
“Merlin Ciara, I’m sorry. Whoever did this, they’re sick, they’re evil, and you shouldn't have to deal with this alone.” She sniffed, and held her cousin tighter. “Do you have any idea who?”
Ciara clung on to Grace, unwilling to let go. “I don’t know,” she said miserably. “I’m nice! I don’t speak out against them or anything. I mean, not much. I told Umbridge she was the worst a while ago. But this?” She pressed her face against Grace’s shoulder, trying to pull herself together. It didn’t work. “I just said I didn’t like Halloween. How’s that… I didn’t even do anything!”
“I know, I know,” Grace tried to soothe. What was there to say to that? These people seemed to like to pick those very nice ones out. Their torment seemed to arbitrary.
“Umbridge is the worst, no one would disagree. Clearly whoever did this is just trying to torture you. For fun. They’re sick,” she repeated. “Has anyone said anything to you? On the journals or in person? Anyone stick out?”
“I don’t think so,” Ciara said. “I haven’t really looked lately. Not much, anyway. I’ve been… avoiding everything. Which, obviously wasn’t the best strategy.” She wiped her face on the jersey she was wearing – Saoirse would never find out, it was fine – and looked up, finally. “I’m starting to understand why you all signed that thing,” she said. “If they’re going to go after you even though you play nice… why bother? You might as well be a pain in the ass.”
Not that she could do that. Not to the extent some people did, anyway. But there was a small part of her that just wanted to stand up and scream how much the whole world sucked, consequences be damned.
“It does seem to gain their attention, though,” Grace answered more quietly. “And not just to us.” She desperately wanted to know if there was a better way.
Grace pressed her forehead to her cousin’s and wiped at her tears. “You aren't alone in this ok? You have us, you have me.”
“I know,” Ciara said, relaxing for what felt like the first time in months. “I know, I just… I forgot, I guess.” Reaching out was scary. Asking for help was worse. But Grace was right. She wasn’t alone. If she could just remember that everything would be so much easier.
Grace nodded and settled her chin atop Ciara’s head. It gave the older girl a full view of the pictures plastered all over the flat. She inhaled deeply.
“Come on,” Grace squeezed her cousin’s shoulder. “You aren't staying here tonight. Let’s go to my place. We’ll finish off the ice cream and fall asleep in our bathrobes in front of the tv.”
“Okay,” Ciara said, nodding. “That sounds good.” She still had to grab some clothes and things, but she didn’t think the pictures had made it as far as her small bedroom, so that was okay.
“I have a bottle of Cava somewhere, I’m bringing that too,” she decided as she washed her face and packed her toothbrush and a change of clothes. That way she wouldn’t have to face this again until tomorrow afternoon. That would help. “You’re the best,” she said to Grace as she resurfaced, sounding almost like herself. “Did I ever tell you that?”
Grace smiled, looping her arm with Ciara’s. She gave her a reassuring squeeze, pointedly ignoring the pictures spilling across the floor. “Must be a family trait.”