JO IS THINKING ABOUT HER MOTHER'S GARDEN. In the summer, it is bountiful, with bright, big green leaves that her mother tends to early in the morning into the afternoons. The fruits are juicy and sweet, and Jo will pick at them lazily as she sits in the sun, studying the fanged geraniums and leaping toadstools. When she was younger, Jo would spend hours with her knees in the dirt, yanking up roots and arguing with her brother over whose turn it was to start degnoming. When she was much younger, her mother would place fragile seeds in the palms of her hand and guide her towards the small holes in the ground she had dug. And Jo would stare, eyes wide as if they would just sprout instantaneously.

Now, the ground is hard and cold, the peaks of dirt frosted over and any trace of leafy greens now buried by the layers of snow that have piled up. Jo pulls the sleeves of her sweater over the tips of her fingers, and she knows that in time, the ice will melt and the seeds will sprout but she is stuck on how desolate and dead and cold it all looks. Jo shudders. She hates the cold.

Jo can see it now, from the window, as she lies on her mother's bed, tucked into her side, Euphemia's hands smoothing out the stray flyaways of Jo's hair. They keep popping back up as soon as Euphemia takes her hand away, and Jo can feel static buzzing through her hair. Jo thinks she should almost be embarrassed for crawling into her mother's bed like a sick, small child. But she's not, she can't even care.

Euphemia's been gentler with her daughter, softer, like Jo is once more a small child with seeds clenched in her small fist. Perhaps she can see the drag to Jo's movement, the twitching of her fingers or the dark bruises that sag under her eyes or maybe as a mother Euphemia just intrinsically knows, but she looks at Jo now like she can see right through her.

Jo can hear the laughter of her father and brother that echoes off the walls and floats through the hallways. James is happy-Lily said yes. To their future home together, to marrying him. Jo missed it all. She feels like she'll blink and before she knows it, there will be little redheaded ankle biters calling her auntie. Jo thinks about it, and her eyes burn. She doesn't know why.

And as if she can feel the way Jo's emotions shift, Euphemia leans down to place a kiss on her daughter's forehead. "Aw, Josie," she comforts, and clicks her tongue.

""M alright," Jo swallows, rapidly blinking and trying to make her voice sound as clear as she can.

Euphemia says nothing for a moment, just resumes her petting. She hums, staring ahead of her. "You know, it's much different for you young people now than it was when I was your age. You and your brother have the weight of the world on your shoulders," she sighs. "When I was your age the biggest decision I ever had to make was whether to go out with your father or the Ravenclaw Beater."

Jo lets out a quick snort. The idea of her mother being in love with anyone besides her father is far-fetched and ridiculous enough to break through the thickness she feels in her chest. The love her mother and father have for each other is something Jo's never doubted. It is as much of a concrete fact as it can be, and Jo likes the idea of loving someone so much it becomes undisputable to anyone lucky enough to witness it.

Euphemia continues to run her fingers through Jo's hair, gently and carefully, so her fingers don't get stuck in the tangles of Jo's split ends. "I just don't think it's fair," she laments, pressing a kiss to the top of her daughter's head. "Us old people have made such a muck of the world, and now it seems we're relying on the young ones to clean it up for us."

Jo wiggles in closer. Her mother simplifies it, talking to Jo like she is younger and stupider, but it spreads warmth throughout her. She likes being treated delicately, being coddled, held tightly in the arms of her mother. She likes to feel safe, cozy, shielded from the cold and free from the fear that makes its home in her chest.

Her mother continues, "Still, I have faith that your generation can get it right this time, and maybe we won't ever have to go through something like this again." Her hand stops briefly. "You know, Josie, you're my miracle. Well, you and your brother. And I think the two of you, well, you can both do great things. Different things, but great all the same."

Jo doesn't say anything, but she feels such a fondness for her mother in that moment that her eyes sting once more. She holds her breath to keep her sobs in. Euphemia starts to pet her hair again. It's nice, Jo thinks, to feel tender. "It may be hard," she concedes, "but you're my brave, brave, girl, and I know you can do it."

There's a lot Jo can think to say in the moment, but she says none of it. She holds on tighter to her mother and breathes in her scent deeply. Fresh laundry, bergamot, and cinnamon.

It takes a lot for her to crawl of her mother's arms that night, to lie in the cold emptiness of her own. Sleep evades Jo and she's grateful that it does. She stares up at the ceiling and thinks about her mother, imagines a younger version of her and wonders if that version of Euphemia was anything like Jo. She doubts it, of course, that such kindness and such love could ever evolve from a bitter and anxious person. But Jo likes to imagine that there are bits of her in her mother, or, rather, that there are bits of her mother in her. Jo then pictures herself, younger, chubby fingers delicately cupped around a handful of seeds, and thinks that there must be.

Winter holiday drags on. It is dull and slow and though she is constantly on the brink of ripping her hair out from her head, Jo finds herself a bit grateful for the quiet. It's better than it could be.

Jo's learned to tame her anxieties, or at least how to get through the worst of it-advice from her mother. Whenever she feels it start to creep up and squeeze at her lungs, she makes lists. Things she's grateful for: Regulus still writes to her every day and tells her he's alright; she can never be alone with her thoughts for too long before Peter shows up to talk her ear off; she gets more letters than she can read at once from her friends. It gets a bit pedantic, of course, but it helps, most of the time, at least.

And when it doesn't, Jo sneaks off for a cigarette.

She told Regulus she would quit, and she meant it, but it became entirely too much to quit all at once. So when the list making starts to hurt more than it helps, Jo sneaks outside and lights one with the tip of her wand. Her last pack is dwindling. It's late at night, the eve of her departure back to school, and Jo only has two lone cigarettes left.

Jo stretches her legs over the front steps, looking out over the thinning layers of snow and feels the heat between her fingers as she sucks in, smoke billowing throughout her lungs. It leaves a rotten taste in her mouth now, one that she didn't notice before. But now the smoke leaves her mouth tangy and her tongue thick.

Regulus had left her a note earlier in the day: I'll see you tomorrow. Her heart thumbs in her chest at the thought of it. She'll see him again tomorrow, and it'll be over. He'll be okay, she'll stop worrying, and they won't have to be separated again.

I'll follow you anywhere.

At the sound of the door squeaking open behind her, Jo jumps out of her thoughts and turns to see her brother, nose scrunched up at the smell and sight of her cigarette and thick red scarf almost swallowing him whole. "Alright, Josie?" he greets, taking a seat beside her on the icy steps. James hisses at the cold.

Tapping the end of the cigarette, Jo watches as the ash drifts into the snow. She doesn't look James in the eye. She hasn't spoken to him as much lately. He's been a bit preoccupied, balancing his Order duties with his house hunting and wedding planning. It's so ridiculous, Jo thinks, to be planning a wedding at a time like this. Deaths and missing muggle-borns and homes burned to the ground, families displaced and the Ministry complacent and they are planning a wedding. Her father tells Jo that it's best not to stop life, and that people could use a bit of joy, but the idea of it all has Jo's fingers twitching. "What do you want?" she asks.

James scoffs, slightly shaking his head. "Can I not just talk to my sister?" When Jo says nothing to that, he continues on, rubbing his hands together, "Look, I just wanted to see how you're doing. You seem a bit, erm, down lately."

""M fine," Jo responds, gnawing on her bottom lip as she stares ahead, eyes unfocused. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, you're always a brat and moody and sort of vicious-" he lists, a levity in his words that Jo pointedly ignores. She's less in the mood for his teasing than ever.

"You've made your point there," Jo cuts him off, tone clipped, irritation budding.
"-but lately you've just seemed sad instead," James finishes, now gentler with his words. He shrugs, gently nudging her in the side. "Making me worried."

Jo's known that her foul mood hasn't really been much of a secret to anyone; she hasn't tried particularly hard to hide it. She figures this conversation would've occurred sooner or later but still, when it comes, she's even more uninterested in it than she thought. "You don't have anything to be worried about," she tells him.

Looking straight ahead, she can still feel his stare bore into the side of her face. "But I am," he insists, sounding all too grave. There's been this change in James. He's not the same as he was before, not the mischievous boy that put dung beetles in her porridge or blew up the Slytherin toilets. Jo's not sure if it's the war or age or Lily but he is different. He even looks it.

"Well, you shouldn't be," Jo counters. It's not like the care she gets from her mother; the concern James shows her makes her feel stupid and childish. She doesn't like being talked down to by him.

"I still am, though."

Jo groans. "James-"

"I know you, Josie," he reminds her with another gentle nudge to her side. "I know when you're not okay. Don't bother lying to me." Jo swallows, and again, says nothing. "What's going on?"

And concern is etched onto his features: brow drawn in, lips pursed thinly, and eyes fixed firmly on her, glasses slipping down the slope of his nose. But Jo doesn't buy it, she knows it's conditional. She knows any mention of Regulus and the concern for his wellbeing will be met with belittlement. He doesn't care about him, doesn't care about the way it affects her. Jo thinks of his expression, the wide-eyed betrayal at the sight of Regulus's hand on her shoulder. She shrugs, casting her gaze down. "No point in talking to you about it."

"I'm your brother," he states firmly. "I do care about you, and you can talk to me if you want. It might help-"

"James, I don't care. Alright?" Jo interrupts, not in the mood for pep-talks or his endless and grating Gryffindor optimism. "I'm fine and even if I wasn't there's nothing you could do to help."

He's still for a moment, and then he sighs. "Alright then," James relents, and stands, gesturing to the cigarette in her hand. "Put that thing out," he says as he opens the door, and lets the wind slam it shut behind him.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jo is itching to see Regulus.

She missed him on the train. Dorcas and Alice grabbed her by the hands and dragged her to their usual compartment, where Hestia and Emmeline were eagerly waiting to gush and gossip, and the thought of seeing him was pushed to the back of her mind. And it's not as if their company was unappreciated. It was there, sitting with the girls Jo's been friends with for years that she cracks her first genuine smile in a while. She finds a comfort in their presence that can't quite be replicated. Emmeline rests her head on Jo's shoulder as she giggles through a story about a boy she supposedly met in Paris. Dorcas tries to manage a blush on cheeks as she recalls her Christmas gift from Marlene, and everyone does her the favor of pretending not to notice. Alice tells a riveting story about how Frank defended her from some cretin that insulted her on the street and Hestia spares no detail in recounting how chaotic her visit to the Prewett home was.

And as she sits sandwiched between Dorcas and Alice in the Great Hall, ignoring Dumbledore's speech and munching on bits of her steak and kidney pie, she is half tempted to skip out on the rest of dinner and pull Regulus into a broom closet.

He sits at the Slytherin table with his back to her, and Jo stares at the back of his head, heart thumping rapidly. She wills him to turn around, hopes that he faces her so that she can see the details of his face. He hadn't returned back to her room, and Jo hadn't seen him since apparated away from her, dawn light seeping into her window.

Regulus doesn't turn around though; he sits at the table with his shoulders hunched and Jo's chest tightens. Dinner ends, and she doesn't see his face.

Before she's able to sneak out, Jo lies on Dorcas's bed, her hair spread out over her pillow and Dorcas's tickling her cheek. Alice is snoring lightly in the bed next to them. They stare up at the canopy draped over her bed, Dorcas lazily pointing her wand upwards. From it, sparks form glittering constellations, reflecting back in their eyes. A content smile sits on Jo's face, it's calming.

"Do you remember that fight we got into last year?" Dorcas asks her suddenly, voice no louder than whisper.

"Yeah," Jo replies, eyes glossed over as she stares at Dorcas's stars. "Seems a bit stupid now, though, doesn't it?"

Dorcas is silent for a moment. The sparks from her wand fizz and pop, and it's a wonder they don't wake Alice. "I am sorry for what I said to you that night," she mumbles. " I never did properly apologize. It was really harsh, and I didn't mean any of it."

"'S alright," Jo says automatically. She hadn't thought of their argument in a while, and the cuts from it had scabbed over. "I hardly even remember what you said in the first place. Besides, I should've been a bit more sensitive about the whole thing anyways." She pauses again, and then turns to face Dorcas with a slight smile on her lips. "You and Marlene are a cute couple, you know."

"We really are, aren't we?" Dorcas giggles, her sparks turning pink as she twirls her wand slightly in her hand. "I'm glad you and Regulus are together as well. When you're not worrying yourself to death over him, it's obvious he makes you really happy. Even if I find him a bit creepy."

Jo gapes. "He's not creepy-"

"I mean he is a little," she says, quiet laughter in her throat. 'You two are a very serious looking couple."

She had never thought about it before, how they must look together. Him, sulking in the corridors while she scowls at anyone who passes. Regulus's serious and sullen expression, her snarled lip and harsh glare. Of course, they must look at little severe. But still, no one else sees the soft way he smiles down at her, or hears the sweetness he speaks to her with. She thinks of their fingers entwined, dancing to her record collection in the room of requirements, the redness in his chest as he cuddled closer to her in her bed.

"Suppose we are," Jo muses.

Dorcas's sparks turn to golden dust, dissolving into the air.

It's barely past curfew when Jo sneaks off to see him. She usually waits a bit longer, but tonight, Jo just doesn't have it in her. She ties the laces on her canvas shoes as Dorcas starts to drift off and is out of the Gryffindor common room before it has even emptied.

Jo finds herself oddly nervous, anxiety in the pit of her gut as she walks through the corridors, thinking of the scar splashed across his face he had earned the last time he went home. And all at once, the comfort from her friends has faded, and the anxieties that plagued her over the winter holiday come back, deep in her chest and rushing her breathing.

And she doesn't know why it's all started eating away at her again. He's back. She saw him and his head of dark, shiny hair and she knows that he'll be okay, that he has to be. Or, at the very least, he will be. But Jo is nervous to the point of nauseousness, and it grows with each step, and she is stuck feeling like something horrible has happened, or, even more worrying, that it's about to.

She think of the last time she saw him, of the expression he wore when he left her and his hand drifting up her shirt and Jo feels herself grow hotter, almost like she's immune to the crisp air of the castle. Her steps become quicker.

Jo thinks that when she sees him, she will tell him that she loves him. She had chastised herself daily for not telling him as soon as she realized it, and desperately wants to get it out. And maybe that is why her stomach is in knots as she marches down the stairs and makes vows to herself that she is not sure she'll keep.

Jo rounds the corner towards the Greenhouse, footsteps thundering, and sees him. Regulus stands in the middle of the corridor, curls brushed out of his face, Prefect badge pinned proudly to his chest, and, at the sight of Jo, he grins.

And, like always, Jo can't help herself at the sight of him. It's like a punch to the gut, the way the wind is knocked out of her at the sight of his grin. Tears well in her eyes, and she lunges herself at him.

Her arms are wrapped around his shoulders and her feet off the ground, and she cannot hold onto him tight enough. "Regulus," she breathes out, feeling like it is the first time in a while she had done so. She takes in his scent. Cedar, spruce, juniper, and feels a sob break out of her throat.

His arms snake around her waist, pulling her closer against his frame. He feels thin, his chest flat and shoulders slender. Her fingers go tight around his curls as she buries her face in his neck. "It's alright, Josephine," he tells her, voice smooth and low and rich and at the sound of it, Jo sobs harder. "I'm alright."

It all comes out then. The host of anxieties, the chain smoking, the sourness, and the sleepless nights. Jo lets everything that has built up break down as she cries into Regulus. He's okay, and it's done. He doesn't have to go back. It's done, she tells herself. It's done, it's done, it's done.

Still, she can't stop. Hiccupping, crying, gasping for air. Jo trembles against him and Regulus places a hand against the center of her back, thumb rubbing circles against the fabric of her shirt. He is still and firm and solid, unmoving as he whispers into Jo's ear that he's alright, it's okay, he's alright.

Regulus kisses the top of her head. "I've missed you too, love," he says gentle, and manages to get a chuckle out of her wailing.

Jo sniffles, taking deep breaths and trying to regain control of herself. Slightly, she pulls away from him, feet firmly against the ground now as she faces him. Regulus is as beautiful as he always is, though his eyes seem brighter than usual, and the twitch of his lip makes her gut flutter. Jo tries to speak again, but her throat catches in a hiccup.

He leans down, lips landing softly on hers for just a moment, and he leans back. "It's alright," Regulus assures her once more, and this time Jo really feels as if he means it.

It's over. It's over. It's over. She tries to think of some clever quip to make up for the tears that still roll down her face but all she can manage is, "I was so worried about you."

Regulus takes his hands