Rating:
PG-13
House:
Astronomy Tower
Ships:
Angelina Johnson/Fred Weasley
Characters:
Angelina Johnson Fred Weasley
Genres:
Romance Alternate Universe
Era:
Harry and Classmates Post-Hogwarts
Stats:
Published: 12/24/2005
Updated: 12/24/2005
Words: 1,382
Chapters: 1
Hits: 964

Colour Blind

CrackHead

Story Summary:
When Fred and Angelina go visit Angelina's grandmother back home in Zimbabwe, Angelina relishes the colour and Fred finds out what divisions are.

Chapter 01

Posted:
12/24/2005
Hits:
964


The heat is oppressive. She stays as still is as can, trying not to breathe too hard, because damn it, she can even feel the heat of that on her upper lip, already covered in a film of tiny beads of sweat. Her skin is already several shades darker, even though she arrived only three days ago, and she's been spending this time trying to get used this is infernal heat. The canopy of the tree she's sitting under provides some protection but....

It's sweltering. The shade does nothing but protect her from the sun, but the heat is still there. They're sitting on her grandmother's old blanket, but already, she can see two ants traipsing over her naked leg, but she just doesn't have the energy to shake them off. The air is heavy, and constantly buzzing with some insect or another, and infused with the scent of exotic plants and flowers. She'd love to sit up and take notice if only it weren't so....

Baking. Beside her, Fred sighs thickly and fans himself lazily with her magazine. She could tell him that he's probably generating more heat than he's dissipating but that would involve actually thinking about how she was going to move her tongue to form the words and....Speaking of which, her tongue feels heavy and cumbersome in her mouth, and it's only radiating even more warmth and oh, the craziness of it. It's like....

Fever. Exactly, like fever. Her thoughts are scattered, and the pulsating heat stops her from gathering them so she doesn't. She's uncoordinated, and breathless, panting, making her mouth unbearably dry and as her throat muscles contract and expand, a trickle of sweat trails from behind her ear, slips down her already damp neck and disappears in the opening of her shirt. By now, it's the only thing that's moving between the two of them, Angelina and Fred, because he's given up his futile attempts at circulating cool air, and has just watched that teardrop of saltwater disappear into the oblivious girl's shallowly heaving chest. Inviting and...

Slick. She turns to him at this point, and he looks at her, gleaming and helpless and is considering going after that sweat trickle when -

"Angelina!"

And the moment is shattered as soon as it begins. She blinks, and quirks the corner of her lip, as if in sympathy.

"Gogo?"

***

"Tichatenga miriwo pa musika, gogo." And on this note, they leave.

Fred has been refraining from asking what it means, and it has the phenomenally irritating effect of making him really paranoid, as does most of what Angelina's grandmother says to her in this odd language. Well not odd, but. Mmm.

They shuffle at a slug's pace, and the dust that passing cars drive up serves only to fling small stones into Fred's face, which is continuing to grow redder in the increasing heat of midday, without the inviting shelter of the small tropical jungle in Mai Nhiriri's back garden. The sky even blazes a startling blue, even after the storm of last night, which kept him up to the small hours of the morning, and the road on the hill in the distance shimmers, and the outline distorts out of its usual shape before Fred shakes his head clear. He fancies that the tarmac underfoot is melting slowly, and if the hissing sounds that the small boy that hops by makes are anything to go by, Fred would say that it damn well nearly is.

The looks, though. Oh, God, the looks. They look as hot as the tarmac, almost. He tries to ignore them, but they prickle at the back of his flushed neck. Searching, dark eyes rake over him (and he can swear he can feel the welts from the stares) and although they say nothing, the little children that stare seem mocking, holding their boxes of vegetables and fruit, with bases blackened with dirt and ages of rough use.

"I'll buy the vegetables," he says suddenly, stopping at the next stall. Angelina, who is too busy matching her steps to the heavy, loud thumping in her heart, only realises Fred's lanky frame is no longer beside her when she's paces ahead. She turns back, shielding her eyes with her hand and purses her lips. For a moment, all Fred can see is the colour and all Angelina can hear are the whispers. She hands over a stack of bills without a word.

"A portion of greens, please," he asks, pointing to the dark green leaves.

The woman on the other side of the stacked boxes considers him while rocking back and forth to keep the baby on her back quiet. She sucks her teeth noisily and squints up at him accusingly, almost.

"Twenty dollars."

If the soft gasp off to Fred's right somewhere is any indication, he'd say he's just been ripped off. As it is, though, he doesn't think that he's in any position to complain and hands over the money wordlessly. Already, he can feel the warm creep up his neck and onto his face, and his mouth thins out in frustration. They're silent all the way back home.

***

The kitchen is clammy, damp, from the products of Mai Nhiriri's cooking. They swing the wooden door open, first, then reach for the barred door, used to keep the dog out when it's too hot a day to close the door.

One would think that on a day like today, it would be in use, but it's not. Instead, as they hesitate between the white washed wooden door and the black wrought iron gate into the house, a the sort of hush that happens when you've just walked in on somebody talking about you descends and everybody sort of just...falters. Angelina's mother turns away silently, ashamed, and Mai Nhiri makes a noise of contempt Fred feebly hands over the vegetables then quietly retreats back into the garden.

Dinner on the veranda that night is a quiet affair.

***

The next day isn't any better, and ten in the morning finds the two of them lying almost naked and lifeless under the same sturdy tree. Angelina is already damp in the most uncomfortable of places, and is considering the propriety of spreading her thighs a little, to let a little air circulate, when Fred shuffles and turns over to face her on the straw mat. "I was thinking we could go get lunch or something, later."

The face she wants to make threatens to crawl into her features but she fights them back and concerns herself with smacking a bloodthirsty mosquito on her thigh. "Where were you thinking of going?" She strips off her top, and hopes her grandmother won't venture out into the garden.

Then, a pause.

"Westgate."

Oh.

"Oh." A large sunhat replaces a tight bun, and she closes her eyes and hopes he takes the hint and doesn't say anything more.

"I'm really lucky to have you, Angie." Her chest grows sore with repressed sobs.

***

She finds the cool white interior of the shopping centre to be offensively impersonal. Every shop window, every surface, every tile shines, every dark sunglasses lens reflects and she can't help but feel like a great ugly stain. Shivering, she rubs one goose pimpled arm and this prompts Fred to latch onto her elbow and pull her closer. Is it awful that she has to resist a flinch? And how is she to know what the eyes behind the glasses of the passers hold?

The restaurant is calm, civilized and reserved. The customers murmur to each other, and small smiles are exchanged between friends, rather than laughs. The attire is formal, and nobody else is wearing some flimsy, disgustingly coloured monstrosity, oh no. It's almost like she's choking on this sterile air, polluting it, even. But above all, it's the shocking familiarity.

And I thought I was getting away from this.

Looking at Fred, she's not surprised to see him looking completely at home.

Afterwards, it's only when they walk out of the shopping centre doors and cool and dry and crisp becomes hot and wet and heavy, and white has began to caramelise into more comforting colours, does Fred realise what the difference between in there and out here is.