(no subject)
The Burning Man serial murders had been weighing heavily on Fred’s mind. The psychotic acts were all targeted at former Griffyndors, it couldn’t be a coincidence. Someone was turning against them again. It had been almost ten years since the last major War, surely it was time for people to start getting along. To keep getting along.
Absently, he rubbed his scar. The raw, marred skin had been prickling since the first kill. The murder of his former housemate. Fred sighed, his memories bringing up moments he wished he could forget...
Fred stole through the Great Hall, fervently looking around to see if anyone had noticed him. The coast was clear for him to cause enough disruption to join The Dark Lord. He needed a murder in order to be accepted. In order to get the Mark. In order to belong. His head buzzed with different sensations, almost like someone else was making his decisions.
He picked his target. Ernie MacMillan.
That little, fat Hufflepuff wouldn’t know what hit him. Wouldn’t even see it coming. And sure, it’s not like anyone would even miss him.
Fred ducked and scattered Filibuster’s under the tables. Sitting up and taking a big mouthful of mashed potatoes, he looked around. Still no sign of anyone suspecting anything. It was perfect. With a muttered word, the fireworks went off, sending the tables into disarray. With the panic, no one heard him point his wand. No one heard him say the words.
Avada Kedavra -- and poor Ernie MacMillan was dead.
It was almost too much; remembering his own first murder sent a shiver down his spine and he felt the bile rise in his throat. It felt like a lifetime ago, it felt like it happened to a different person. But the memories kept coming...
He ran back to Hogwart’s, pushing through the crowds, and demanded his presence in Dumbledore’s office. “Fizzing gumdrops! Chocolate frogs! Lemon Sherberts! Rhubarb Rock!” Fred listed every sweet he could think of, and finally the gargoyle sprang to life. He stood on the stair and made ready to confess everything.
Dumbledore’s office slowly twisted into view, the old wizard sitting perched behind his desk. “Mr Weasley,” he observed, “what are you doing here?”
“I’ve beat him,” Fred sobbed, “I think he’s dead!”
It wasn’t long before Fred had led his headmaster to the spot where he had beaten Alexander Johnson into a bloody mess. Angelina was standing there, hands to her tear streaked face. “He was going to hurt her, sir,” he said, by way of explanation. “Really hurt her.” Dumbledore took charge and contacted the Ministry.
“But young Mr. Weasley here had saved this dear girl,” his white beard quivered when he spoke. “If it hadn’t been for his horrible, yet heroic actions, she could be dead.”
Back in the Professor’s office, Fred cracked and told him the whole story. “And that’s - I... I want out...”
He was sitting heavily on his worktable. He couldn’t not think about this. It had been years since he had let himself think these things, think these thoughts. Ever since his conversation with Harry, his mind had been dark; his thoughts turned to his shady past. Fred rubbed the scar again...
The empty bottle of firewhiskey lay tipped over next to him, the last drops spilling onto the table. He clasped a silver knife in his left hand, whetting it so it shone.
He looked down at the ugly black snake on his right forearm with disgust. How he loathed this mark. There was nothing he could do to make it go away. It didn’t matter what spell he used, that snake was engrained in his skin. The only thing that took the black away was Muggle make-up...
Fred winced.
But it wasn’t enough. It had to go away; he couldn’t live with himself any more if it was still there. It made him feel ill; made him remember how he had betrayed his family, his house, himself.
Carefully, he ran the edge of the knife across a parchment, watching it slice through. It was sharp enough. He grabbed the sock and stuffed it in his mouth.
His cries were muffled as he dug into his skin. The tears streamed down his face, guilt mingled with pain, as he carved. Each stroke proved more difficult than the last, but finally, desperately, he’d managed it.
A slurred spell, and the skin melted back together, like candle wax dripped on a holder. It wasn’t perfect, but neither was Fred.
He stared at that mottled skin. He’d done that. He’d been brave enough to take it away. But it could never truly go away, he saw, as he looked and saw pieces of black ink gleaning through the scar. Rubbing it a final time, he pulled his sleeve back down.
The Burning Man. This horrible person committing heinous crimes. And Fred was helpless. He stared at the rows of Ears on his wall.
If only there was something he could do.
Absently, he rubbed his scar. The raw, marred skin had been prickling since the first kill. The murder of his former housemate. Fred sighed, his memories bringing up moments he wished he could forget...
Fred stole through the Great Hall, fervently looking around to see if anyone had noticed him. The coast was clear for him to cause enough disruption to join The Dark Lord. He needed a murder in order to be accepted. In order to get the Mark. In order to belong. His head buzzed with different sensations, almost like someone else was making his decisions.
He picked his target. Ernie MacMillan.
That little, fat Hufflepuff wouldn’t know what hit him. Wouldn’t even see it coming. And sure, it’s not like anyone would even miss him.
Fred ducked and scattered Filibuster’s under the tables. Sitting up and taking a big mouthful of mashed potatoes, he looked around. Still no sign of anyone suspecting anything. It was perfect. With a muttered word, the fireworks went off, sending the tables into disarray. With the panic, no one heard him point his wand. No one heard him say the words.
Avada Kedavra -- and poor Ernie MacMillan was dead.
It was almost too much; remembering his own first murder sent a shiver down his spine and he felt the bile rise in his throat. It felt like a lifetime ago, it felt like it happened to a different person. But the memories kept coming...
He ran back to Hogwart’s, pushing through the crowds, and demanded his presence in Dumbledore’s office. “Fizzing gumdrops! Chocolate frogs! Lemon Sherberts! Rhubarb Rock!” Fred listed every sweet he could think of, and finally the gargoyle sprang to life. He stood on the stair and made ready to confess everything.
Dumbledore’s office slowly twisted into view, the old wizard sitting perched behind his desk. “Mr Weasley,” he observed, “what are you doing here?”
“I’ve beat him,” Fred sobbed, “I think he’s dead!”
It wasn’t long before Fred had led his headmaster to the spot where he had beaten Alexander Johnson into a bloody mess. Angelina was standing there, hands to her tear streaked face. “He was going to hurt her, sir,” he said, by way of explanation. “Really hurt her.” Dumbledore took charge and contacted the Ministry.
“But young Mr. Weasley here had saved this dear girl,” his white beard quivered when he spoke. “If it hadn’t been for his horrible, yet heroic actions, she could be dead.”
Back in the Professor’s office, Fred cracked and told him the whole story. “And that’s - I... I want out...”
He was sitting heavily on his worktable. He couldn’t not think about this. It had been years since he had let himself think these things, think these thoughts. Ever since his conversation with Harry, his mind had been dark; his thoughts turned to his shady past. Fred rubbed the scar again...
The empty bottle of firewhiskey lay tipped over next to him, the last drops spilling onto the table. He clasped a silver knife in his left hand, whetting it so it shone.
He looked down at the ugly black snake on his right forearm with disgust. How he loathed this mark. There was nothing he could do to make it go away. It didn’t matter what spell he used, that snake was engrained in his skin. The only thing that took the black away was Muggle make-up...
Fred winced.
But it wasn’t enough. It had to go away; he couldn’t live with himself any more if it was still there. It made him feel ill; made him remember how he had betrayed his family, his house, himself.
Carefully, he ran the edge of the knife across a parchment, watching it slice through. It was sharp enough. He grabbed the sock and stuffed it in his mouth.
His cries were muffled as he dug into his skin. The tears streamed down his face, guilt mingled with pain, as he carved. Each stroke proved more difficult than the last, but finally, desperately, he’d managed it.
A slurred spell, and the skin melted back together, like candle wax dripped on a holder. It wasn’t perfect, but neither was Fred.
He stared at that mottled skin. He’d done that. He’d been brave enough to take it away. But it could never truly go away, he saw, as he looked and saw pieces of black ink gleaning through the scar. Rubbing it a final time, he pulled his sleeve back down.
The Burning Man. This horrible person committing heinous crimes. And Fred was helpless. He stared at the rows of Ears on his wall.
If only there was something he could do.