THE TROPHIES ARE POLISHED TO PERFECTION UNDER JO'S FINGERS, shining so bright and clear she can see her reflection in it, warped and distorted in the gold. She's on her knees, wiping away any imperfections and smudging away dirt to reveal the names of long forgotten students. The heavy trophy she has in her lap is dated all the way back to eighteen-ninety, dedicated to a few Ravenclaw Chasers. Jo's sure her brother's name is somewhere among them, and even more sure that hers is not.

People stare as they walk by, harsh whispers of her name as they drift in and out of the library. She hears everything they say about her, each word tight in her chest, twisting and sharp. Heard she nearly killed him.... only two weeks detention?...broke both of his knees....said she tried to use an Unforgivable....do you think it's true? Jo just turns her head, jaw locked and snickers when they turn their heads down, shuffling away with big, panicked eyes and blushes. It seems to Jo that no one else is looking to get knee work done.

Jo doesn't mind her detentions, not that much. Of course, there are things she'd rather be doing, but they get her out of a lot. They take precedent over Quidditch, so instead of flying in the dark, frigid air, being ignored and dismissed and isolated, Jo can sit on her own, repetitive motions of polishing putting her mind at ease. She does, however, mind the way people speak about her, spreading lies and venom and latching onto whatever vile Reed's rambling on about. Breaking his knees only seemed to affirm his lies, and though Jo can't seem to make herself feel an ounce of regret, she's tired of hearing about her life from other people, or at least, a twisted and perverted version of it.

The rotten egg smell of the polish lingers in Jo's nose; after hours she's still not used to it, choking back gags and grimaces as she rubs and polishes and buffs. Jo bites down on the inside of her cheek, swallows thickly, pushes the trophy away from her for a fresh gulp of air. Two more weeks, she thinks. Just two more weeks.

The corridor's empty now. Jo shifts on the ground, thinking that dinner must be well under way while she sits there on the cold ground, and fingers frozen as they work. Jo hates the cold. She hates it. It's all she can think of as she stares at her warped reflection, the corridor and portraits and everything else blurred, out of focus.

"I think you missed a spot there."

It is once again Regulus's voice that has snapped her out of her stupor, forcing her back into reality with rapid blinks and a sense of dizziness, ripping her from her thoughts, from her haze. He's leaned up against the wall beside the trophy case, looking down at her, wry smile and black robes and everything that she would expect of him. Jo snickers. "Aren't you supposed to be at dinner?" she asks, standing with the trophy in her hand. Her joints creak and crack as she stretches them out, but she is unnerved by the thought of being on her knees while he stands above her. She hasn't figured out where she stands with him.

"Aren't you?" Regulus quirks, eyebrow raising along with the inflection of his voice.

Jo shrugs. "I prefer trophy polishing to the storytelling," she tells him, placing the trophy back on the display, haphazardly and with a loud slam back on the case, for emphasis.

"Are you sure? They're getting quite creative," Regulus tells her, hands in his pocket, looking like he is examining the space between them. Regulus speaks to her in a tone that she wouldn't expect from him, different from the first time she confronted him, light and smooth, an airy tone, gentle and soothing. He is not harsh or spitting or blunt or brash or anything like Sirius. "Did you know you might go to Azkaban?"

Jo sighs, "Might as well start preparing for life on the inside then."

Regulus gives that nothing but a light chuckle. His hands are deep in the pockets of his robes, tip of his shoe tapping against the wall, slow and rhythmic. He looks down when he says, "You should still eat something. Would you like me to walk you to the Great Hall?"

Jo tries to imagine his brother saying something so eloquently, with such a gentlemanly aura. She feels improper before him, cold fingers stinking like the rotten egg of the polish. "I think I'll just make a trip down the kitchens. The house elves make for better company, anyways," she responds. And without thinking, she asks, "Care to join me?"

Jo is surprised by her own question, and so is Regulus, who takes a step back, looks over his shoulder and twists his mouth around, like he's tasting something sour. He looks back at her and with an easy shrug says, "Alright," which is just something else Jo doesn't expect.

When Regulus walks with her, he walks by her side, a good distance between the two of them, but close enough for her to notice his height, how his limbs are long and skinny and how the top of her head would just barely skim the top of his shoulders. She notices that the smell of him is rich and thick, deep like the forest, ashy, cool. Hints of sage. Jo looks at him, briefly, side eyed glances, every few steps or so. She notes things about him she has noticed before, again, in a new light. His pale skin, the light scattering of freckles, the sharpness of his jaw. There are new things she notices as well. The faint, white, thin scar that runs from under his ear to the edge of his jaw, the only blemish on him she can find. She notices how his slight curls are neatly tucked behind his ear, contained. She notices that he notices her looks but doesn't bother to say anything like he did before. He just smirks knowingly.

Jo counts her footsteps, and it takes her a few strides to notice that her steps have lined up with his, and they walk in unison, footsteps echoing. Jo thinks of saying something about it but doesn't.

When they reach the fruit, it is Jo who steps forward, tickling the pear. Regulus keeps his distance. He keeps his distance when she steps into the kitchen, taking slow steps behind her. He keeps his distance as she crouches, speaking to the house elves with a polite tone she usually never takes. And he keeps his distance as they eat plates of hearty potatoes and roasted vegetables and moist meat with a thick gravy.

And all the while, they don't say a word to each other.

Forks scrape against plates. Regulus has a chair pulled up tightly to one of the tables while Jo sits directly on top of hers, legs crossed and hunched over her plate. She swallows a mouthful of potatoes, smooth and creamy and buttery. Regulus eats in small bites. Carefully cut squares of meat, halves of quarters of his roasted vegetables. He is polite and quiet, while Jo gnaws at everything she can fit on her fork. She didn't realize a detention could work up such an appetite. The food hits her grumbling stomach and she feels a sense of satisfaction.

It occurs to Jo that she's not really quite sure how to talk to Regulus, not casually, not within the bounds of an easy, friendly conversation. And it seems strange to her, at that moment, that she's sitting there with him. His name is suddenly heavy in her mind, and all of its implications.

Jo chews and flashes a glance at Regulus. "I've always wanted to try American food."

This makes Regulus look up at her, the light hitting his eyes just right, so Jo can see the green in them. "American food?" he repeats back to her, hints of amusement in his words.

"Like their muggle food," Jo nods, her knife working her way through a half-eaten slab of meat. "All of their food comes in boxes, their meats and cheese and everything. They take a powder, and they turn it into a meal. Like magic."

Regulus has placed his fork down on his plate, letting his hands rest on his lap. "Sounds bad for you," he remarks.

"Yeah, but that's what makes it so good," Jo replies, a grin twitching on the corner of her mouth. It is crooked and wry, like it always is, like Regulus is used to. "That's what my mum says. She makes a banger sticky toffee pudding."

Regulus returns his gaze down to the plate in front of him, lips upturned, wry in his own way. "My mother was never really one for baking. She left that to the house elves."

And once more, Jo doesn't know what to say. She drags her fork against her pile of pillowy potatoes, eyes drooped. She knows what his mother has done, at least to Sirius. Jo imagines Walburga Black as cold, bony and viscous. She imagines her as everything her own mother is not, as everything that she hates. Jo swallows. "I'm not very good at it, myself," she says, hesitation clear in her voice. "I burnt every baked good I've ever touched."

Regulus chuckles. It is soft and velvety, the sound of his laugh. "That doesn't surprise me," he replies. "You don't seem to be the housekeeping type."

This makes Jo quirk an eyebrow. "Oh? And what type do I seem?"

There is a beat of silence. Regulus examines her, cold eyes not feeling so cold and the twitch of his mouth making Jo feel as if she is on display. "Something different," Regulus answers, cool and composed as he always is. "That's what you seem to me."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

James knows that the fastest way to his sister's heart is vengeance.

The first part is Jo's favorite. She's barely awake as she chews on the end of her sausage, cheek pressed into the palm of her hand and eyes fluttering, when the fireworks go off. They're bright, erupting from the center of the Hufflepuff table and Jo recognizes them at once. Their display earns jumps and yelps and concerned frowns from professors. Three, yellow, sparkling fireworks that are large and loud, catching the attention of everyone in the Great Hall before they fly, whizzing straight over to Ivan Reed and forming words above his head.

I am a lying twat.

She snorts at the sight of it, watching as he realizes, his stupid brown eyes going wide as he tilts his head up, twists around trying to see what's hanging above his head. He whispers to Calcott on his right, and she watches the realization dawn on his face, watches him go through the five stages of grief.

Everyone stares, and that gives Jo some sense of satisfaction. They gawk and they point, and they whisper and they laugh and Ivan frantically tries to swipe it away. But the words stay. Alice is chortling into her pumpkin juice next to her. Dorcas giggles. Calcott swings his arm over Reed's head, the letters scatter but they snap right back into place. I am a lying twat. Jo fights the smile that twists onto her face.

It's one that they used before. Jo can distinctly remember Snape stuck with the phrase ask about my dirty knickers stuck above his head during Jo's third year. Though it seems that they've worked out some kinks, because whereas Slughorn was able to simply whoosh the words away, Professor Sprout cannot, no matter how many times she waves her wand, cannot get rid of the sentence on Ivan Reed's head.

So he is a lying twat for the day.

Reed looks positively distraught when he strides into their block of Defense. Jo bites back barks of laughter, leaning onto Emmeline's shoulder as he slumps into his seat, forehead on the desk in front of him and arm shielding the back of his head. But still, the words hang bright over his head. I am a lying twat.

Professor Higgy does his best to continue on talking about Dementors and their weaknesses and their strengths but not one person learned a single thing, because they are giggling and pointing and whispering and no amount of point deductions and threats are stopping them. Jo is delighted at the way Reed tries to sink deeper and deeper into his desk, the back of his neck red as red could be. Emmeline leans in and whispers to Jo, "I love seeing that twat get what he deserves."

And Jo can't help but agree.

The words have faded by the next day, Jo notices as he slumps into his seat at the Great Hall, bags under his eyes heavy, looking drained of the golden light that dazzled her before. Alice leans into Jo. "Jones said he was up all night in their common room trying to get the words off. Had all of his mates trying to get rid of them. Whole house was down there watching," Alice giggles. "Never worked. Had to go to bed with them shining right above his head."

Jo keeps her eyes on Ivan as she smirks, and Dorcas lets out a long sigh. "It's almost a pity to see them gone. But they really did wonders in terms of public opinion."

"Yeah," Jo agrees, fork in her hand and chin in her palm. She thinks of the stares that seemed to have slipped away from her and found themselves locked on Ivan, of how the rumors have become stories twisted in her favor. From the snippets she's heard whispered and passed around, it seems that Jo is no longer the villain. "Doesn't seem like enough, though."

Alice shoots back, "For Merlin's sake, Jo, you broke his bloody knees."

"Well, they're not broken anymore, are they?" Jo scoffs and looks back over to where Ivan is slumped and weakened and exhausted.

It is when he takes a sip of his pumpkin juice that the hair starts growing.

Jo snorts into her own cup as large tufts of thick, golden hair grow from his nostrils, the middle of his ears, from up underneath his shirt. It all pops up, all at once, thick and heavy and everywhere. And it's growing, consistently, nonstop. Inch by inch, it grows. Jo lets out rapturous laughter, leaning into her friends. Alice is clutching her sides, Dorcas gaping as Ivan lets out screams, quick gasps of horror as it bushes up in front of his face, as the hair on top of his head stretches down past his waist, all the way down to the floor. He stands, stumbling, he trips over it.

Pomfrey is quick to rush towards him again, arms extend out towards Reed as he stumbles and struggles and yells, whole body now covered in so much hair that he can't even see. Jo would feel bad for him if it was anyone else. But even Christopher Calcott looks bored with it, and the whole hall is staring now, either laughing or whispering. Ivan trips over his arm and falls directly into Pomfrey's arms.

He spends the rest of the day in the hospital wing.

Hestia tells Jo over textbooks and parchment that Ivan, defeated and humiliated, is hiding out in his dorm, hiding his face whenever he has to go to class, sneaking into the kitchens to eat. And all the while, her brother and his stupid friends are delighted in it, whooping laughter, and boasting and Jo's even heard that they had a few more things lined up before Ivan decided to hole up.

Of course, she doesn't hear a word from them. Not any of them, not even Sirius or Peter. Not until her brother corners her.

James is seated by the fireplace of the common room when Jo stumbles down the steps at about three in the morning for her nightly walks. Jo jumps at the sight of him, seated there in his pajamas, glasses perched at the edge of his nose. He gives her a slight smile, one that looks strange on his face. He is too much, all the time, a too big smile, a too loud laugh. Subtly on him looks unfamiliar, he puts her on edge. "Hey Josie," he greets.

Jo locks her jaw, tightens her fist. She squares her shoulders, purses her lips into a flat line. "James," she greets, cold and chin upright.

James stands, blinking rapidly and forcing his smile to grow, bright and dazzling. "You know you're my favorite little sister, right?" he questions with a forcible cheer in his voice. But he lets it drop as Jo takes a few steps towards him, arms crossed over her chest and scowl etched into her features. "I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for, exactly?" Jo questions, leaning up against the arm of the couch, examining her brother with narrowed eyes and a harshness in the downturned angle of her mouth. Two weeks he didn't talk to her, and she's feeling indignant at the notion that he thinks he can just spew off with joking flattery like that and win back her affections.

James takes a deep breath, and with a heavy exhale, he lets out, "For not respecting your boundaries. And for yelling at you. And for ignoring you. And for making you think I care more about Lily's feelings than I do about you."

Jo scowls. It sounds like Lily's words coming out of his mouth. "Hmm."

"It's just that you're so gruff Josie," James continues, pushing up off the chair and taking a step closer towards her. "It's easy to forget that things hurt your feelings too."

"Right, so just because I don't cry when you yell at me, you can go on and treat me however you like?" Jo shoots back, keeping her voice low and even but sharp and precise.

James groans. "You know that's not what I meant," he counters, shoulders slumped, and he looks at her with big pleading eyes. "Josie, you know how I am. I am a stubborn, stupid git, like you said, like Lily said. And I just, well, I try to make things go my way. Try to force things."

The fire crackles between the two of them. Jo watches the way the flames dance against his face, the shadows, and the light of the flame dancing on his skin. "Glad to hear you admit it."

"It was big of you to apologize to Lily, and I appreciate it, more than you know. I'm sorry it took me so long to see past my, well, pigheadedness," he tells her, and he sounds like her big brother, like the big brother she remembers. Warm and loving and it's different from what she's used to from him. Jo finds herself softening. The torment of Reed helps, too.

She chews on the inside of her cheek before she responds. ""S not your fault your pig head is so big you can't think straight," Jo grumbles.

And before she can say anything else, James is rushing towards her, arms around her and lifting her feet up off the ground. "You know you really are my favorite sister, Josie. I do mean that."

Jo rolls her eyes. "Of course, I am."

"And if Reed or anyone else ever says anything about you again," he growls, placing her back down on her feet, hands tight on her shoulders, "he'll be getting a lot worse than a new hairdo."

His words are jovial but the threat in them is persistent, and for the first time in a while, Jo sees herself in her brother.