JO IS WOKEN UP ON BOXING DAY BY A HEAVY WEIGHT LANDING SQUARE IN HER GUT, making her cough and grunt and groan. Her eyes peel open, heavy and sticky and slow to adjust to the bright light pouring in from her window, to see the familiar blurred form of copper-colored curls and deep set dimples. Jo rubs her eyes with balled up fists and says, "Who the hell let you in?"

Hestia rolls over on her side, resting her forehead on her palm and eyeing Jo. "Your mum, of course. You better get up, by the way," she says, and then hops up, sitting on her shins and now hovering over Jo. "Alice and Vance'll be over soon."

Jo tries to sink further into her bed, pulling her duvet cover under her eyes. "They can piss off," she grumbles, voice thick with exhaustion. Her newly developed sleepless habits have followed her home, and she had spent the entire night tossing and turning and watching as the sun melted into the night sky, slipping into dawn.

The warmth and the darkness of the shelter of the duvet cover is bliss, but it is cut short by Hestia ripping it right off of her, exposing her to the brightness and coldness of the morning. Curses and complaints fall from her lips as she lays flat, squeezing her eyes shut and Hestia seems indifferent to it. She sits on the end of the bed. "C'mon, Jo, I missed you," Hestia croons, gripping on to Jo's bicep and shaking her slightly.

"Hasn't even been a week," Jo reminds her, squeezing her eyes shut hard now, hoping that if she keeps them closed for long enough, Hestia will disappear and return later, when she's gotten more than just two hours of sleep. But she stays, suddenly moving about Jo's room and rummaging through her clothes and throwing various clothing items onto her bed, dress robes, sweaters, skirts, jeans. Jo finally opens her eyes and sits up when a pair of shoes hits her in the gut. "What are you doing?"

"Picking out an outfit for you," Hestia replies, pulling out a vest and examining the fabric, twirling it around in her hands. "This is cute. You should wear this."

Jo lets out a long, low groan. "For what?"

Hestia shoots her a look of exasperation, eyes rolled up and jaw slacked. "It's Boxing Day, Jo," she says, hanging the vest up on the door handle of her closet. "We're going pub hopping. Do you have any fur coats?"

Jo shakes her head and rolls off of her bed, feet hitting the cool, hardwood floor and making her shutter. "I'm not seventeen yet," she reminds Hestia, stretching her hands high above her head.

"That's why we're pub hopping," Hestia explains, now fishing out a brown, fur-trimmed coat that Jo's never even worn before. "We'll leave before we get caught and by the time anyone's figured us out, we'll be at the next one."

"Sounds like a very, very bad idea," Jo says slowly, eyeing Hestia, trying to see if she's serious or not.

Hestia gives her a flat look, unimpressed. "You know, you used to be fun."

"Times do change, Jones."

"Not tonight they don't," she asserts, pulling together some mossy striped corduroys, holding them up to Jo, eyes narrowed. "We're having fun and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it. Now, put this on."

Jo looks towards the frosted window, the sunlight almost blinding as it's reflecting against the snow. "What time is it anyways?"

"Almost eleven," Hestia answers easily. "You missed breakfast, but your mum said lunch'll be ready soon."

Jo crosses her arms over her chest and leans against her bedpost. "Damn."

Hestia looks at Jo, eyes trailing along her neck, along the chain that now hangs over her chest. She takes the pendant in between her fingers, looking at the juniper inside. "This is cute. Where'd you get it?"

"I dunno," Jo shrugs, trying to make herself believe that it's true.

Hestia raises an eyebrow at her. "You don't know?"

"Was under the tree yesterday, didn't have a name on it or anything."

"Huh. Looks like you already have another admirer." Hestia says it as an offhand comment, but it makes Jo twist in discomfort, the words hitting her one by one, making her flinch.

Jo feels a little bit ridiculous as a blush spread across her cheeks. She pushes Hestia out of her room and insists on some time to get ready and tucks the pendant underneath the vest Hestia picked out for her.

Alice and Emmeline arrive at Potter Manor not long after that, and after they're full on Mrs. Potter's bangers and mash with beans and gravy, they're huddled in the corner of the living room, whispering plans and schemes on how to sneak Jo into pubs. They argue over the effectiveness of ageing potions and transfiguration spells and disillusionment charms until eventually, Emmeline comes up with the idea of sneaking into muggle pubs with some transfigured identification.

Jo thinks it's a horrible idea the whole way through, until, of course, they leave the third pub, and she is laughing so hard her gut hurts.

She leans into Emmeline as she doubles over. The icy air has no effect on her, not as she is clutching onto her friend and feeling warm from the beer that's sloshing around in her belly. The stars are bright in the sky as they all stumble through the cobblestone streets. Alice and Hestia are holding hands, spinning, and skipping and singing Bee Gees, mixing up the words and melodies.

"Jo," Emmeline says through breathless bits of laughter, holding onto her friend just a bit tighter, " please get them to shut up."

"Oi!" Jo yells at once, "would you two shut it? Me and Emmeline are trying to have a nice, disco-free night out here!"

Alice looks back at them with a grin, "Try as you may, Potter, but you'll never escape the disco fever!"

Emmeline stops suddenly, grabbing onto Jo's hands and holding her firm in front of her. Jo stumbles a little bit but straightens out once she sees Emmeline's big, shining blue eyes. "Jo, you have to promise me, swear to me, that no matter what happens, you will never, ever, catch the disco fever."

Jo leans forward, places her forehead against Emmeline's and whispers fervently. "I swear it."

The rest of the night is filled with a hearty joy, one that sweeps Jo off her feet, lifts her in the wind and places her back down in the arms of her friends. And as the night goes on, she can't even remember how she could be so unhappy.

Jo spends the rest of her holiday lounging about, working hard at doing nothing and fighting the urge to rip James's head off. When he's not forcing her onto a broomstick to play makeshift rounds of Quidditch, he's putting his newest forms of torment into practice. He puts dung beetles in her porridge and struggles to choke back laughter as she squints her eyes at the bowl, poking them with her spoon and then promptly letting out a loud yelp at the realization. This, apparently, is not enough of a reaction for him, so the next day, he tries the same thing, but with hundreds of them, crawling all over her bed. This reaction, screeching and threatening and a hard punch in the arm, is enough to make him double over in laughter. He also dabbles in new ways to wake her up; casting a dark grey cloud over her bed, and letting a snowstorm completely bury her, transfiguring her bed into large, sticky piles of yellow sludge, covering her sleeping form in sticky honey and brightly colored feathers. And on the morning, they're meant to return, Jo's normal shampoo that leaves her hair feeling soft and looking shiny, has been swapped out with a gel that has given her bright acid-green hair.

"James!" Jo screams, stomping down the stairs with her hair dripping wet past her shoulders with her pajamas thrown haphazardly on.

He and Sirius are seated at the kitchen table, put together and ready to catch the train back, and the sight of her, infuriated and soaking wet, makes them both grin over their toast and eggs. "Josie, wow," James laughs, "I like the new look, really."

Jo slams her hand down on the kitchen table. "Do you really have nothing better to do than to piss me off?" she yells.

"Oh, c'mon Josie," James chides, his stupid grin never faltering, and Jo finds his confidence staggering. "I'm just trying to make you laugh a little. You've been so severe. Thought a little harmless fun might make you lighten up."

Wildly, Jo gestures to her hair, water droplets ice cold on her neck and the green bright in her peripherals. "How is this fun for me?"
James blinks. "It's just a joke, Josie."

"Jokes are supposed to be funny, James," she argues. "What is funny about ruining my hair or filling my bed with beetles? What about that is fun for me?"

Sirius leans back in his chair and looks over to James, "I told you the beetles were a bad idea."

Jo grips the edge of the table and looks at her older brother with wild eyes. "I am going to get you, James Potter. I am going to get you when you least expect it and I am going to ruin your life," she vows in a low, threatening voice, eyes narrowed, and index finger pointed at her face. And then she pushes away from the table, taking slow strides away from the pair of them.

"No, Josie, c'mon. You don't prank right!" James calls after her. "You always take it too far. You don't have the natural gift of levity that I do!"

She turns to offer him one final warning, "Sleep with one eye open," she threatens, and then yells towards the stairs, "Dad!"

Fleamont Potter runs a potion through his daughter's hair, her neck resting against the edge of the tub, bathwater now running green. Jo has her arms crossed tightly over her chest and grinds her teeth against each other. Her father is looking down at her with a warm smile, shaking his head.

"Your brother never seems to know when to stop, does he?" he questions as his calloused fingers work through Jo's hair.

Jo continues pouting. "Yeah, he's a bloody idiot."

Her father nods. "James told me you two had been fighting last term."

"Yeah, because he's a bloody idiot."

He takes a while to respond, pouring more of the sweet-smelling potion over Jo's wet hair, and Jo studies her father's face. It is rich with age, a smile permanently etched onto his cheeks, dark brown eyes big and warm, greying hair still has thick and wild as his son's. "You know what I think, Josie?" he questions after a moment. "I think James needs to work a little harder at seeing things from your perspective. And I think you need to work on your temper. And both of you need to stop being so stubborn."

Jo snickers. "That's likely."

A small smile breaks onto his face, knowing and soft. "Just go easy on him, yeah? Your hair's almost back to normal."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The train lulls Jo, rocking her as she's curled into the corner of her compartment, forehead pressed up against the frosty window, watching the snow pile up outside. She thinks that it hasn't stopped snowing since she left. Her hair is still damp, but now back to its usual warm, brown color, and curls tied up, loose bits resting on her neck. Dorcas, Emmeline, and Hestia are stretched out, legs resting on top of each other, slumping up against each other, half-asleep.

Jo feels a strange ache in her chest, necklace feeling cold against her skin as it's tucked under sweater. She has a half-empty pack of licorice wands on her lap next to Dorcas's shins. It's a struggle to keep her eyes open, and every time she feels herself slipping, she lazily reaches for another one and sucks on the licorice until it turns soft.

Emmeline shifts, playing with the ends of her sleeves and growing uncomfortable with the silence. Jo can see it happening, the closer she gets to speaking, and thinks that's the biggest difference between her and the raven-haired girl. "Hey Meadows," Emmeline says, wiggling in her spot against Hestia, "How was California?"

Dorcas doesn't open her eyes to answer, but a frown sinks onto her features. "Hot. Boring. Didn't even get to meet Robert Redford."

"What a tragedy," Hestia croons.

"Tell me about it," Dorcas asks, and then, as if it's against her will, asks, "What about you lot?"

"Jones vomited on someone," Jo is quick to answer, letting a smugness seep into her tone.

Hestia sits up straight, leaning in towards Jo and insists, "I vomited near someone!"

Jo lets her head lop to the side and looks at Dorcas. "Wouldn't have happened if you were there, Meadowes," she tells her with a smile in her voice.

"Wish I was," Dorcas grumbles "I can't stand another holiday with my grandmother. She collects garlic."

Emmeline shrugs. "Maybe she's preparing for a vampire attack."

"Did you take McKinnon out to see a film?" Jo questions, tilting her head.

The mention of Marlene makes Dorcas open her eyes, makes her shift, makes her straighten out. "Oh, yeah well-"

Before she can answer, though, there is a loud slam, and before anyone can say anything, Alice is standing at the door, a crumpled newspaper in her hand and a wetness in her eyes. "Have you all read the Prophet this morning?" she asks, stepping into the compartment and worming her way in between Jo and Dorcas.

"No, why?" Emmeline asks, leaning forward and trying to get a glimpse of the paper that's hanging from Alice's hands.

Alice takes a deep, heavy breath. "Henry Fernsby and his family were murdered."

All at once, Jo is dizzy. "What?"

"Henry Fernsby?" Hestia repeats back, back now straight and eyes wide with horror. "The fourth year?"

"His whole family was murdered last night," Alice says, voice now nothing but a whisper that hangs heavy between them.

Emmeline has a rare blankness to her expression. Jo can see her hands shaking. "Fucking hell."

Dorcas reaches for the paper and is quick to scan the article. ""A young wizard and his muggle family were killed in their home at three-thirty-two this morning. It is believed that the Killing Curse was used on the family. Though no one has been formally arrested, Stefan Balan has been brought into the Ministry for questioning. A spokesperson from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has confirmed that the attack is believed to be related to the growing influence of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," she reads in a thick, shaky voice.

Hestia shakes her head. "That's bollocks."

"He was only fourteen," Emmeline says, quieter than Jo has ever heard her. Henry was a Ravenclaw, shared the same common room as Emmeline, shared the same colors as her. "That makes me sick."

Dorcas drops the Prophet on the floor of the compartment, and there is a wave of nausea at the sight of a Dark Mark hovering over a small Tudor home. "It's getting worse."

"At Hogwarts too," Hestia agrees. "The worse it gets outside, the worse it gets inside."

"We got to look out for each other. Okay?" Emmeline insists. "We'll look out for each other."

Jo nods, swallowing the lump in her throat and says, "Yeah. Yeah, we look out for each other."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Dumbledore gives a speech that falls on numb ears. But it's long and heavy and it lasts so long that the food turns cold on the table. Jo doesn't eat her dinner because it looks like rubber in front of her and her stomach feels like it's churning with cement. She holds Dorcas's hand under the table and chews on her bottom lip and she thinks it's the most silent the Great Hall has ever been.

The air is thick and hard to breathe. Jo didn't know Henry or his friends or any fourth year Ravenclaws, but she can feel the echoes of his loss washing over the hall and it's impossible not to feel the grief. Hushed whispers of indistinguishable words and choked sobs are the only sounds. Not even the professors are moving or eating or speaking and every once in a while, someone will leave, pushing away from their house table and rushing back up to the dorms to cry alone and in peace.

The castle was never immune to horrors of the budding war, but it's never hit so hard. The shift is almost tangible in the air, it's so overwhelming that Jo feels like her chest is caving in. Someone has died. A child has died. The reality of it is unsettling.

And that night, Jo decides, silently, a vow to herself, that she will do whatever she can, whatever it takes, to bring an end to the madness. She had heard of the Order before, in loose whispers between her parents, in hushed conversations with Remus and Sirius whenever James wasn't around, and it's all she can think of now, as she watches a fourth-year girl sob into her dinner, feeling nauseous.

No one says anything to Jo. Jo doesn't say anything to anyone else. They pick and poke at the dinner and they shuffle back to their common rooms and Jo listens as Dorcas cries herself to sleep.

Jo lies awake that night and stares at the ceiling for hours, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she thinks about Regulus Black. She thinks about Regulus Black, and his mother and she thinks about Henry Fernsby and his family and what it must be like in the Ravenclaw common room and she feels as if there is something heavy resting on her chest.

Her walk begins earlier than it usually does, just a little after midnight, when teachers are still definitely wandering around the castle, with a much higher chance of getting caught, but she doesn't particularly care. She thinks of the scars on Sirius's arms and chest, of the one running along Regulus's jaw as her feet pad against the floor of the castle halls.

She just wants to see Regulus and she doesn't know why.

He's not at the Greenhouse, where he normally is, not by the kitchens or by the Hufflepuff common room. Jo takes slow steps, dragging her feet and peeking around corners and down staircases. She doesn't know why her heart is beating in the base of her throat or why she takes quicker steps the longer she doesn't find him.

It takes twenty-five minutes for Jo to find him. He is crouched, curled into a ball behind the One-Eyed Witch statue, his head tucked between his knees, shoulders shaking. It's a familiar sight that makes her stomach twist and turn and she takes faster steps now. "Regulus?" she calls out to him, his name sounding strange in her voice.

He doesn't look up. He doesn't move, doesn't flinch. Not at her voice, not when she approaches. Jo stands above him, watching as he tries to sink further into himself, fingers tightening around the hairs on the back of his neck. She sinks, unsure and slow. His cries are quiet, but the whimpers hit her ears as she crosses her legs, the edge of her knees almost touching his shins.

Time seems to be moving slowly as she reaches for him. She doesn't think when the tips of her fingers touch his robes, but her face flushes at the way he seems to freeze at the contact. Jo holds her breath, still, and Regulus looks up at her.

His eyes are red, his tear-stained face paler than usual, cheeks hollowed and jaw clenched. Jo blinks, watches at the water pools in the bottom of his eyes, the tears and the redness making them brighter, greener. Jo doesn't realize how intently she's staring at him. She doesn't think about how long she's been there, completely still with the tips of her fingers grazing the fabric on his arm. He says nothing.

Jo swallows. "Do you want to talk about it?" she whispers.

The question seems to knock him back to reality. He straightens, arms dropping to his side and head turned away from her, and takes a deep, heavy breath. "Not particularly," he answers tightly.

The air feels stiff between them. Jo nods, and then pushes off the ground, standing on her feet once more. "Why don't we go for a walk then?" she offers, and extends a hand out towards Regulus.

He stares, unblinking and seemingly