(no subject)
Title: Night Without the Day
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Remus/Sirius (upcoming chapters), Ron/Hermione, past Fred/Angelina/George, George/Angelina, Fred/George, various others
Rating: R
Status: In Progress
Warnings: Language, drug use, violence, slash
Chapter Warnings: Hints at Weasley-Cest ♥
Other: Canon through 7th book except for Epilogue.
Summary: 10 years after the war, the DE trials are just drawing to a close. For Draco, Ron, the Weasley clan, and many others, life is just getting back into place. But when Harry Potter returns from a self imposed exile, haggard, emaciated, and withdrawn, he brings him with a mission to face a new threat, forcing open a Ministry Cover up that's made victims of not just the living, but those who were supposed to have been dead.
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Authors Notes: So, you know what's conducive to writing a fic? Having over 2/3 of it outlined already and ready to be typed up at a moments notice.
Wanna know what's not? A 22 page essay due about psychological testing in a non-clinical setting. Guess what I did instead of that 22 page paper :D
YOU GOT IT RIGHT! CHAPTER 4 YAY!!!!
Dedicated to noeon who makes me wiggle with her comments! *Rolls on* *Noms*
Chapter 4
Put Him In the Ground
Sometimes I worry that I've lost the plot
My twitching muscles tease my flippant thoughts
I never really dreamed of heaven much
Until we put him in the ground
But it's all I'm doing now
~Bright Eyes, Easy/Lucky/Free
“His whole face was melted off?”
Ron nodded, swallowing down the bit of pasta soaked noodles as quickly as he could, anxious to continue sharing the oddity of the day’s events. Ginny’s question still resonated in the relative quiet of the table, the Weasley family gathered for their normal meals. It had become a tradition to get the family together at least once a week, at first to support each other over the loss of a loved one, and then more out of habit than anything else. After Fred’s death, it hit home how quickly the tight knit clan could fall apart, and their bonds had become more firm to compensate for the emptiness left behind from the passing of such an integral member.
Currently scattered in a tight pack around the enlarged table was Ron and Hermione, sitting side by side. On the other side of her was Percy, his two daughters, infant Lucy and older sister Molly-but don’t call her Molly, because it’s Mols, or so she the five year old would haughtily claim. Beside Mols was Charlie, then Arthur, Molly, George, and Ginny. Fleur, Bill, and their offspring had gone to visit family in France, leaving it more quiet than normal without the usual squalling of one year old Louis and the seven year old Victoire’s traditional tantrums.
“Gone,” Ron continued, reaching up to brush his fingers over his face, almost as if he were afraid he would feel them on his own flesh like a contagious disease. “It was horrifying. He didn’t even have a nose left.”
Charlie made a tsk'ing noise, shaking his head as he brushed off Mols’ small hands, the young child smiling adoringly up to her favorite uncle. “This is why I left Romania,” the older redhead stated, tapping the little girl on the nose before turning his attention to the Auror. “Even the government was doing terrible things. It became way too dangerous to stay. It doesn’t surprise me that something like that happened.”
“You say that hearing it, but it’d surprise you if you saw it,” Ron grumbled. He dropped his fork, stomach flipping as the sound of the wheezing suddenly echoed through his mind, and he had to swallow back a lurching nausea that came with the memory. He grit his teeth tightly, Hermione’s cool hand the only thing registering for a moment as it slipped into his own, and he gave his wife a grateful smile which she readily returned. A few light curls escaped from a Romanesque bun, tickling her cheeks and eyelashes, and he paused a moment to clear them away. Her eyes, her smile, made the sickness in him subside, feeling like a beacon of sunlight on the darkness the day had brought, warming him to his core. “Anyway,” he finally said, turning back to the table, ignoring his mother’s adoring and sappy look aimed at them both. “He gave me a number to this person he claimed was Harry. He said it was the only place I could reach him, because Harry doesn’t use traditional means to communicate.”
“It would make sense,” Hermione mused, thumb dancing over Ron’s knuckles. At the strange look he gave her, she rolled her eyes. “Really, Ronald, when was the last time we got anything more than an owl from him?”
Ron frowned, nose scrunching in displeasure, cheeks coloring a slight tone of red that made his freckles almost blend in with his face. It was true. Ever since Harry had left England, their relationship had gone down to nothing more than a few passing notes, and it sat wrong with the redhead. He loved Harry as much as if he were a brother, and when the green eyed wizard put himself into exile, acting like some sort of social recluse and cutting off even his friends, it bloody well hurt. And to think that Harry was now going around saving the world? Ron didn’t know if he was more irritated that Harry refused to relax, or with the idea that Harry simply hadn’t brought along his two friends. They were a trio. Like the Three Muskateers. There should have been no world saving without them, damn it!
“Maybe it’s not really him,” Percy chirped in, his soft voice barely audible above Lucy's nonsensical babbling.
“We have no proof one way or the other,” Ron conceded. “We’re going to try to arrange a meeting with this bloke and see what’s going on.”
Hermione nodded, dragging Ron’s hand to her lips and pressing a kiss to his fingertips. “That’s a good idea,” she agreed. “Do you need a cell? I have the one my parents got me.”
“No, we’re getting one from the office. Unlisted. Jonas thinks it would be best to keep it all official. Or at least as official as an under the table op can be. This place reeks of corruption, and more than a few of us think someone at the Ministry is keeping something a secret.” Hermione hummed in thought, nipping at the back of his hand.
"Well, whatever it is, you'll figure it out. You're the best they have there," she stated with a firm resolve. Ron couldn't hide his blush, squeezing her hand and almost ashamed that her compliments still made him feel as happy as they did when they were school children. Reluctantly he released her to go back to his dinner, knowing he would never hear the end of it if he didn't clean his plate.
“I wonder what he looks like after all these years?” Ginny mused dreamily, brown eyes lighting up as the same goofy smile that she always wore at Harry’s name lit up her face. This time it was Percy who tsk’ed, Arthur and Molly sharing a look as Charlie snorted and rolled his eyes.
“Probably still gay,” the oldest gathered brother stated, earning a choked laughter from Ron and a resounding “CHARLES!” from Mrs. Weasley. Hermione laughed as Ginny cast her best glare to her brother, livid with denial.
“Harry Potter is not gay!”
“GAY!” Mols suddenly cried out, causing Percy to pale. Hermione laughed harder, Arthur covering his mouth, Molly fanning herself in exaggerated shock. “What’s gay, Papa?”
“Well, whatever he is, it’s his own business!” Arthur declared loudly.
“And what he is, is gay,” Charlie persisted, quirking a brow as Ginny nearly vibrated in anger.
“No! He kissed me!”
“So did Dean!” Charlie shot back.
“And look at how that ended up,” Ron prodded, unable to help but to join in at his sisters unfortunate choices in partners. That Dean had wound up recently taking bonding vows with Seamus only underscored Ginny’s habit of choosing men of the most questionable sexuality. Harry had never been overt in his preferences, but they had once caught him ogling Charlie a little too closely for simple brotherly affections.
Ginny was not as amused as everyone else, crossing her arms over her chest and looking pitifully to her mother. “Tell them I don’t turn men gay!”
“I never said that. I just think you’re the last step to the exit door in the closet,” Charlie stated benignly. Even Arthur’s head was tilted down, shoulders shaking, trying to hide his mirth.
“Daddy!” Mols whined, the warning sound of an impending tantrum. “What’s gay?”
Percy, lost for words, looked pleadingly around the table. And Arthur, desperate for an escape route from the conversation, took it, swooping up the five year old into his arms as he rose from the table.
“I do believe it’s time me and you had a talk, Ducky,” Arthur cooed, causing the five year old to kick her feet in joy and throw her arms around the gray haired man’s shoulders. “Now, when men and women love each other...”
His voice trailed off as he left the room with his enraptured single person audience.
Giggles still echoing, Ginny huffed and brushed her hair behind her ear, looking irritably down to her sadly empty ring finger. She had hoped by this point to at least be engaged. Nearly 26 and not a real relationship to speak of. It was enough to drive a girl mad.
Soon, the amusement at her expense faded, leaving a strange silence, interrupted only by the sound of metal on glass and the steady babbling of an oblivious Lucy. From another room, a loud laugh wafted in as Arthur did something or another to delight his other granddaughter.
George gave out a sigh, slowly lifting his head, expression as blank as it had remained since they sat down to eat. Clearing his throat, he garnered their attention. Talking wasn’t his strong suit-hadn’t been since Fred had died-and calloused, work worn hands settled down flat over the plaid print tablecloth.
“Ten years.”
The words were like a bell tolling. The loud gonging of a clock that everyone tried to ignore. A weight settled heavily into Percy’s stomach, Mrs. Weasley pressing her fingers over her lips. Of course the day hadn’t been forgotten, but it was easier, at times, to just ignore it. “We buried him ten years ago today.”
Ginny made an odd noise, halfway between a whimper and a cough, reaching across the table to try and grab George’s hand. He made no move to hold her back, just staring where her painted nails rested over his.
“George-“ Charlie started, but he was cut off when the once-twin spoke again.
“I...I don’t want to be okay today. I don't want to hear any of it right now. I just...” His mouth worked uselessly for words, then he stood suddenly, staring at the plate, red hair lank around a haggard face. “Excuse me.”
With that he was gone, a bustle of clothing that was a little too big on his too skinny of form, door slamming moments later as he made his way out the front of the house. Charlie sighed.
“I’ll go,” he mumbled. Percy shook his head, rising to his feet before the other could.
“No.” He patted Charlie’s shoulder soothingly, smiling comfortingly to the other. “I know George. Let me talk to him. Just watch Lucy.”
No one protested as the waif of a Weasley followed his brother, slipping out the door with as much silence as George had with noise.
If you burned your wings and fell into my arms
you know I wouldn't mind being
All the way down
I can't believe in Hell
but I've got to believe in Heaven
I wouldn't sleep at night not knowing
that you were somewhere better.
~Voltaire, All the Way Down
We shouldn’t be here. The words echoed through Fred’s mind, much in the way of his own thoughts. The tenor of the voice told him it belonged to another, and he waved away Vincent’s concerns with one hand, the other plastered firmly to the tinted glass as he stared out hopefully at the house that was once his home.
The Burrow stood as ramshackle as it always had, as if they hadn’t inherited a good amount of reparations from the war and had their fair share of successful youth to pay to clean it up. Fred knew from his own childhood that the inside would be pristine, filled with the smell of food and laughter and home. He couldn’t help but wonder what it was they were eating, what jokes they were laughing at. Couldn’t help the agonizing twist to his gut as he swallowed back his emotions, wanting to curse the ministry and go running up the steps. What he wouldn’t do to see them again, or to hug his mother.
What he wouldn’t give to press his face into his brother’s neck. To stroke his hair and tell him that he was alive. They didn’t have to be alone. They didn’t have to be apart, did they? The only thing keeping them apart was the layer of dark glass and the heavy door of the limo and a few pesky ministry restrictions.
They’ll kill them all if you go, Vincent whispered, through the bond of their minds. It was a comforting presence in Fred’s head, and he found himself reaching out blindly for the other. Knowing what he wanted, Crabbe held out his arm and allowed the soft digits of his boss to press under his sleeve, grasping the burned and mangled flesh that lay underneath. The pressure registered, even if the sensation didn’t thanks to the destroyed nerve endings, but it was a comforting gesture all the same to them both.
“Ten years, you know? I was officially buried ten years ago.”
I know.
“In a week, I’ll have been...like this...for ten years.” Fred winced, remembering what it had been like to wake up, alone and terrified, barely able to breathe. How he had struggled and clawed at the wooden encasement, screaming until his voice was hoarse, hungry, thirsty, and in desperate tears. When he heard the scratching above him and the noise of people prying open the lid to his grave, he had felt pure relief at the idea of being saved, crying for his family and begging for help until the purple robed agents from the Department of Mysteries had brought down something hard across the side of his head, pitching his world into darkness.
When he woke up again, he had been in a cage, like an animal, a bright light shining on his face. He would never forget that moment, blood soaking the front of his face and his burial robes, body still mangled from the collapse of rock and nails torn off, lodged somewhere in the lid of the coffin. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe; could only sit in horror as people behind him whispered. A sound of metal banging on metal, and then there was a press of something ungodly hot against his neck, behind his ear, burning and searing his flesh as he screamed. He had cried, unabashedly cried through the haze of his headache and broken bones and the fire radiating from that spot where branding iron permanently marred his flesh.
When it was over, they had ground crushed sea salt against the fresh wound to ensure scarring. The letter “C”, boiled into his body with cruel iron, marking him forever as different.
If you return to England, we will not only kill you, we will kill your family. We will torture them slowly and burn their bodies to make sure they don’t become like you...
Large hands were suddenly grabbing him, milky leather dragging him by the side of his head against his chest as Fred gave out an agonized breath. He had started hyperventilating at some point, though he wasn't sure when, and Vincent clutched the shivering redhead to his chest in a comforting, protective grasp. It had been such a lonely road for them both, and Fred wouldn’t turn away the only friend he had left and the last tie to a life he had been forced to leave behind.
Collapsing into his arms, Fred moved a little to be able to stare out of the window, vision swimming for lack of air. Trembling digits pulled out a pendant filled with powdered cocaine, and he popped open the top, pulling out a mini spoonful and dragging the sweet relief into his nose. It was the only thing that kept him going--kept him from turning dark like their clan leaders that guided them to England. The only thing that would numb him enough to stop him from running out of the car and to the family he so desperately wanted to rejoin.
“Do you think they still miss me?” the Weasley asked, voice rough with tears and the drug that burned its way down his throat. Still shaking, he struggled to recap the vial, but Crabbe got to it before him, gently taking it from his hold and snapping it back together again. Replacing the necklace under Fred’s shirt again, he patted it through the fabric and then hooked his wrists together again, settling them around his midsection and holding him in a way that, Fred knew from past conversations, was just how he had held Draco during the blonds breakdown in fifth year.
Of course they do, Vincent replied, the cool porcelain mask soothing him as the Slytherin placed his cheek on the Gryffindor’s head.
“Do you miss your family?” Fred wondered, slipping his grip back under the sleeves, dancing over scars as familiar as the lines of his own palms. Vincent stilled, his breath hitching before expelling in a large gust of air, muscles twitching under the more whipcord mass of his boss.
We should leave, the masked male said instead of answering the question, mind-voice little more than a displeased murmur.
“Do you?” Fred pressed, pushing harder onto the charred flesh, massaging along the crevices and ridges in an attempt to return the comfort his friend offered. Vincent made a mental noise that seemed like it would be a grunt had the other possessed intact vocal chords, and finally, a feeling of affirmation washed through their shared bond, the implied yes heavy with loss and longing. “I do too,” Fred whispered.
Any further questions were suddenly quieted when the outside light flared to life. Freezing where he sat, Fred watched with an almost morbid fascination as the screen door pushed open, a long missed and terribly familiar frame stepping out from the haven of the Burrow.
Transfixed by his brother, Fred never noticed when his grip on Vincent turned from comforting to painful and desperate, unable to breathe as his throat tightened. George looked like a shadow of the young man Fred had last seen, his wild, shoulder length hair tangled and streaked with chunks of gray. His body, once lean and beautiful and perfect under Fred’s fingertips, had decayed down to a sad, scrawny size, robes hanging on him forlornly. Even from a distance, Fred could see the hunched shoulders and the exhausted frame as George slumped against the wall, rubbing his hand down his face and skimming the land around them. Barely thirty, he carried himself like an old man, ready to break under the sorrows and pressures of the world that had long ago forgotten him.
Fred wanted to scream. To cry. To run to his brother and shake him and tell him that he should not look like the ghost, because Fred was supposed to be the one dead, not George. George was supposed to go on, to be happy, to have children and live for both of them.
And it was in that moment, staring at the withering body of the boy he had once been identical to, that Fred realized a horrifying truth.
George was going to die. Fred was dead but cursed to walk eternally as a monster, and George was mortal. George would die and go on, and Fred would forever be left in a world without his brother. Even if they couldn’t talk, knowing that George was walking and breathing and laughing somewhere had been the pillar needed for his sanity-the foundation of his existence. It soothed him to look up at the sky and think of all the pranks George was designing in their shop, or imagine what his brother would look like then. To know that they were both under the same heavens, even if George didn't know it.
But Fred had never realized he would age. His whole family would age. His whole family would die.
And Fred would never see them again.
Fred would be alone.
Pale blue eyes settled on the limo as George took notice of it, and Fred couldn’t hold back his agonized wail as his brother slowly rose from the wall. The aged twin’s back drew up straight, lips parting, mouthing Fred's name, distinguishable even at such a distance. Had Vincent’s arms not been clasped around him, Fred would have leaped from the car then, so impossible was the urge to resist the draw of his family, his lover, and his best friend within such a short distance. He thrashed violently against the masked male’s hold, sobbing George’s name. Vincent cursed-or tried-hissing past charred vocal chords and kicking the partition that separated the driver from his passengers, signaling him to move. The engine roared to life, and the redhead shouted in rage as the car began to drive away. The front door swung open again, Percy stepping out to join the other.
The long car rumbled down the dirt path and away from the burrow.
Fred watched as his brother got smaller, before flickering away completely behind the crest of a hill.
Percy watched the strange vehicle trail away, the cloud of dust it kicked up barely visible in the full moon that lit the land almost as bright as day. George stood stock still, wide eyed and pale, chewing violently on his lower lip.
“What in the world was that?” Percy wondered, gently grasping his brother’s elbow. George shook his head.
“My sanity.”
Start at the Beginning
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Pairings: Harry/Draco, Remus/Sirius (upcoming chapters), Ron/Hermione, past Fred/Angelina/George, George/Angelina, Fred/George, various others
Rating: R
Status: In Progress
Warnings: Language, drug use, violence, slash
Chapter Warnings: Hints at Weasley-Cest ♥
Other: Canon through 7th book except for Epilogue.
Summary: 10 years after the war, the DE trials are just drawing to a close. For Draco, Ron, the Weasley clan, and many others, life is just getting back into place. But when Harry Potter returns from a self imposed exile, haggard, emaciated, and withdrawn, he brings him with a mission to face a new threat, forcing open a Ministry Cover up that's made victims of not just the living, but those who were supposed to have been dead.
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Authors Notes: So, you know what's conducive to writing a fic? Having over 2/3 of it outlined already and ready to be typed up at a moments notice.
Wanna know what's not? A 22 page essay due about psychological testing in a non-clinical setting. Guess what I did instead of that 22 page paper :D
YOU GOT IT RIGHT! CHAPTER 4 YAY!!!!
Dedicated to noeon who makes me wiggle with her comments! *Rolls on* *Noms*
Chapter 4
Put Him In the Ground
Sometimes I worry that I've lost the plot
My twitching muscles tease my flippant thoughts
I never really dreamed of heaven much
Until we put him in the ground
But it's all I'm doing now
~Bright Eyes, Easy/Lucky/Free
“His whole face was melted off?”
Ron nodded, swallowing down the bit of pasta soaked noodles as quickly as he could, anxious to continue sharing the oddity of the day’s events. Ginny’s question still resonated in the relative quiet of the table, the Weasley family gathered for their normal meals. It had become a tradition to get the family together at least once a week, at first to support each other over the loss of a loved one, and then more out of habit than anything else. After Fred’s death, it hit home how quickly the tight knit clan could fall apart, and their bonds had become more firm to compensate for the emptiness left behind from the passing of such an integral member.
Currently scattered in a tight pack around the enlarged table was Ron and Hermione, sitting side by side. On the other side of her was Percy, his two daughters, infant Lucy and older sister Molly-but don’t call her Molly, because it’s Mols, or so she the five year old would haughtily claim. Beside Mols was Charlie, then Arthur, Molly, George, and Ginny. Fleur, Bill, and their offspring had gone to visit family in France, leaving it more quiet than normal without the usual squalling of one year old Louis and the seven year old Victoire’s traditional tantrums.
“Gone,” Ron continued, reaching up to brush his fingers over his face, almost as if he were afraid he would feel them on his own flesh like a contagious disease. “It was horrifying. He didn’t even have a nose left.”
Charlie made a tsk'ing noise, shaking his head as he brushed off Mols’ small hands, the young child smiling adoringly up to her favorite uncle. “This is why I left Romania,” the older redhead stated, tapping the little girl on the nose before turning his attention to the Auror. “Even the government was doing terrible things. It became way too dangerous to stay. It doesn’t surprise me that something like that happened.”
“You say that hearing it, but it’d surprise you if you saw it,” Ron grumbled. He dropped his fork, stomach flipping as the sound of the wheezing suddenly echoed through his mind, and he had to swallow back a lurching nausea that came with the memory. He grit his teeth tightly, Hermione’s cool hand the only thing registering for a moment as it slipped into his own, and he gave his wife a grateful smile which she readily returned. A few light curls escaped from a Romanesque bun, tickling her cheeks and eyelashes, and he paused a moment to clear them away. Her eyes, her smile, made the sickness in him subside, feeling like a beacon of sunlight on the darkness the day had brought, warming him to his core. “Anyway,” he finally said, turning back to the table, ignoring his mother’s adoring and sappy look aimed at them both. “He gave me a number to this person he claimed was Harry. He said it was the only place I could reach him, because Harry doesn’t use traditional means to communicate.”
“It would make sense,” Hermione mused, thumb dancing over Ron’s knuckles. At the strange look he gave her, she rolled her eyes. “Really, Ronald, when was the last time we got anything more than an owl from him?”
Ron frowned, nose scrunching in displeasure, cheeks coloring a slight tone of red that made his freckles almost blend in with his face. It was true. Ever since Harry had left England, their relationship had gone down to nothing more than a few passing notes, and it sat wrong with the redhead. He loved Harry as much as if he were a brother, and when the green eyed wizard put himself into exile, acting like some sort of social recluse and cutting off even his friends, it bloody well hurt. And to think that Harry was now going around saving the world? Ron didn’t know if he was more irritated that Harry refused to relax, or with the idea that Harry simply hadn’t brought along his two friends. They were a trio. Like the Three Muskateers. There should have been no world saving without them, damn it!
“Maybe it’s not really him,” Percy chirped in, his soft voice barely audible above Lucy's nonsensical babbling.
“We have no proof one way or the other,” Ron conceded. “We’re going to try to arrange a meeting with this bloke and see what’s going on.”
Hermione nodded, dragging Ron’s hand to her lips and pressing a kiss to his fingertips. “That’s a good idea,” she agreed. “Do you need a cell? I have the one my parents got me.”
“No, we’re getting one from the office. Unlisted. Jonas thinks it would be best to keep it all official. Or at least as official as an under the table op can be. This place reeks of corruption, and more than a few of us think someone at the Ministry is keeping something a secret.” Hermione hummed in thought, nipping at the back of his hand.
"Well, whatever it is, you'll figure it out. You're the best they have there," she stated with a firm resolve. Ron couldn't hide his blush, squeezing her hand and almost ashamed that her compliments still made him feel as happy as they did when they were school children. Reluctantly he released her to go back to his dinner, knowing he would never hear the end of it if he didn't clean his plate.
“I wonder what he looks like after all these years?” Ginny mused dreamily, brown eyes lighting up as the same goofy smile that she always wore at Harry’s name lit up her face. This time it was Percy who tsk’ed, Arthur and Molly sharing a look as Charlie snorted and rolled his eyes.
“Probably still gay,” the oldest gathered brother stated, earning a choked laughter from Ron and a resounding “CHARLES!” from Mrs. Weasley. Hermione laughed as Ginny cast her best glare to her brother, livid with denial.
“Harry Potter is not gay!”
“GAY!” Mols suddenly cried out, causing Percy to pale. Hermione laughed harder, Arthur covering his mouth, Molly fanning herself in exaggerated shock. “What’s gay, Papa?”
“Well, whatever he is, it’s his own business!” Arthur declared loudly.
“And what he is, is gay,” Charlie persisted, quirking a brow as Ginny nearly vibrated in anger.
“No! He kissed me!”
“So did Dean!” Charlie shot back.
“And look at how that ended up,” Ron prodded, unable to help but to join in at his sisters unfortunate choices in partners. That Dean had wound up recently taking bonding vows with Seamus only underscored Ginny’s habit of choosing men of the most questionable sexuality. Harry had never been overt in his preferences, but they had once caught him ogling Charlie a little too closely for simple brotherly affections.
Ginny was not as amused as everyone else, crossing her arms over her chest and looking pitifully to her mother. “Tell them I don’t turn men gay!”
“I never said that. I just think you’re the last step to the exit door in the closet,” Charlie stated benignly. Even Arthur’s head was tilted down, shoulders shaking, trying to hide his mirth.
“Daddy!” Mols whined, the warning sound of an impending tantrum. “What’s gay?”
Percy, lost for words, looked pleadingly around the table. And Arthur, desperate for an escape route from the conversation, took it, swooping up the five year old into his arms as he rose from the table.
“I do believe it’s time me and you had a talk, Ducky,” Arthur cooed, causing the five year old to kick her feet in joy and throw her arms around the gray haired man’s shoulders. “Now, when men and women love each other...”
His voice trailed off as he left the room with his enraptured single person audience.
Giggles still echoing, Ginny huffed and brushed her hair behind her ear, looking irritably down to her sadly empty ring finger. She had hoped by this point to at least be engaged. Nearly 26 and not a real relationship to speak of. It was enough to drive a girl mad.
Soon, the amusement at her expense faded, leaving a strange silence, interrupted only by the sound of metal on glass and the steady babbling of an oblivious Lucy. From another room, a loud laugh wafted in as Arthur did something or another to delight his other granddaughter.
George gave out a sigh, slowly lifting his head, expression as blank as it had remained since they sat down to eat. Clearing his throat, he garnered their attention. Talking wasn’t his strong suit-hadn’t been since Fred had died-and calloused, work worn hands settled down flat over the plaid print tablecloth.
“Ten years.”
The words were like a bell tolling. The loud gonging of a clock that everyone tried to ignore. A weight settled heavily into Percy’s stomach, Mrs. Weasley pressing her fingers over her lips. Of course the day hadn’t been forgotten, but it was easier, at times, to just ignore it. “We buried him ten years ago today.”
Ginny made an odd noise, halfway between a whimper and a cough, reaching across the table to try and grab George’s hand. He made no move to hold her back, just staring where her painted nails rested over his.
“George-“ Charlie started, but he was cut off when the once-twin spoke again.
“I...I don’t want to be okay today. I don't want to hear any of it right now. I just...” His mouth worked uselessly for words, then he stood suddenly, staring at the plate, red hair lank around a haggard face. “Excuse me.”
With that he was gone, a bustle of clothing that was a little too big on his too skinny of form, door slamming moments later as he made his way out the front of the house. Charlie sighed.
“I’ll go,” he mumbled. Percy shook his head, rising to his feet before the other could.
“No.” He patted Charlie’s shoulder soothingly, smiling comfortingly to the other. “I know George. Let me talk to him. Just watch Lucy.”
No one protested as the waif of a Weasley followed his brother, slipping out the door with as much silence as George had with noise.
If you burned your wings and fell into my arms
you know I wouldn't mind being
All the way down
I can't believe in Hell
but I've got to believe in Heaven
I wouldn't sleep at night not knowing
that you were somewhere better.
~Voltaire, All the Way Down
We shouldn’t be here. The words echoed through Fred’s mind, much in the way of his own thoughts. The tenor of the voice told him it belonged to another, and he waved away Vincent’s concerns with one hand, the other plastered firmly to the tinted glass as he stared out hopefully at the house that was once his home.
The Burrow stood as ramshackle as it always had, as if they hadn’t inherited a good amount of reparations from the war and had their fair share of successful youth to pay to clean it up. Fred knew from his own childhood that the inside would be pristine, filled with the smell of food and laughter and home. He couldn’t help but wonder what it was they were eating, what jokes they were laughing at. Couldn’t help the agonizing twist to his gut as he swallowed back his emotions, wanting to curse the ministry and go running up the steps. What he wouldn’t do to see them again, or to hug his mother.
What he wouldn’t give to press his face into his brother’s neck. To stroke his hair and tell him that he was alive. They didn’t have to be alone. They didn’t have to be apart, did they? The only thing keeping them apart was the layer of dark glass and the heavy door of the limo and a few pesky ministry restrictions.
They’ll kill them all if you go, Vincent whispered, through the bond of their minds. It was a comforting presence in Fred’s head, and he found himself reaching out blindly for the other. Knowing what he wanted, Crabbe held out his arm and allowed the soft digits of his boss to press under his sleeve, grasping the burned and mangled flesh that lay underneath. The pressure registered, even if the sensation didn’t thanks to the destroyed nerve endings, but it was a comforting gesture all the same to them both.
“Ten years, you know? I was officially buried ten years ago.”
I know.
“In a week, I’ll have been...like this...for ten years.” Fred winced, remembering what it had been like to wake up, alone and terrified, barely able to breathe. How he had struggled and clawed at the wooden encasement, screaming until his voice was hoarse, hungry, thirsty, and in desperate tears. When he heard the scratching above him and the noise of people prying open the lid to his grave, he had felt pure relief at the idea of being saved, crying for his family and begging for help until the purple robed agents from the Department of Mysteries had brought down something hard across the side of his head, pitching his world into darkness.
When he woke up again, he had been in a cage, like an animal, a bright light shining on his face. He would never forget that moment, blood soaking the front of his face and his burial robes, body still mangled from the collapse of rock and nails torn off, lodged somewhere in the lid of the coffin. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe; could only sit in horror as people behind him whispered. A sound of metal banging on metal, and then there was a press of something ungodly hot against his neck, behind his ear, burning and searing his flesh as he screamed. He had cried, unabashedly cried through the haze of his headache and broken bones and the fire radiating from that spot where branding iron permanently marred his flesh.
When it was over, they had ground crushed sea salt against the fresh wound to ensure scarring. The letter “C”, boiled into his body with cruel iron, marking him forever as different.
If you return to England, we will not only kill you, we will kill your family. We will torture them slowly and burn their bodies to make sure they don’t become like you...
Large hands were suddenly grabbing him, milky leather dragging him by the side of his head against his chest as Fred gave out an agonized breath. He had started hyperventilating at some point, though he wasn't sure when, and Vincent clutched the shivering redhead to his chest in a comforting, protective grasp. It had been such a lonely road for them both, and Fred wouldn’t turn away the only friend he had left and the last tie to a life he had been forced to leave behind.
Collapsing into his arms, Fred moved a little to be able to stare out of the window, vision swimming for lack of air. Trembling digits pulled out a pendant filled with powdered cocaine, and he popped open the top, pulling out a mini spoonful and dragging the sweet relief into his nose. It was the only thing that kept him going--kept him from turning dark like their clan leaders that guided them to England. The only thing that would numb him enough to stop him from running out of the car and to the family he so desperately wanted to rejoin.
“Do you think they still miss me?” the Weasley asked, voice rough with tears and the drug that burned its way down his throat. Still shaking, he struggled to recap the vial, but Crabbe got to it before him, gently taking it from his hold and snapping it back together again. Replacing the necklace under Fred’s shirt again, he patted it through the fabric and then hooked his wrists together again, settling them around his midsection and holding him in a way that, Fred knew from past conversations, was just how he had held Draco during the blonds breakdown in fifth year.
Of course they do, Vincent replied, the cool porcelain mask soothing him as the Slytherin placed his cheek on the Gryffindor’s head.
“Do you miss your family?” Fred wondered, slipping his grip back under the sleeves, dancing over scars as familiar as the lines of his own palms. Vincent stilled, his breath hitching before expelling in a large gust of air, muscles twitching under the more whipcord mass of his boss.
We should leave, the masked male said instead of answering the question, mind-voice little more than a displeased murmur.
“Do you?” Fred pressed, pushing harder onto the charred flesh, massaging along the crevices and ridges in an attempt to return the comfort his friend offered. Vincent made a mental noise that seemed like it would be a grunt had the other possessed intact vocal chords, and finally, a feeling of affirmation washed through their shared bond, the implied yes heavy with loss and longing. “I do too,” Fred whispered.
Any further questions were suddenly quieted when the outside light flared to life. Freezing where he sat, Fred watched with an almost morbid fascination as the screen door pushed open, a long missed and terribly familiar frame stepping out from the haven of the Burrow.
Transfixed by his brother, Fred never noticed when his grip on Vincent turned from comforting to painful and desperate, unable to breathe as his throat tightened. George looked like a shadow of the young man Fred had last seen, his wild, shoulder length hair tangled and streaked with chunks of gray. His body, once lean and beautiful and perfect under Fred’s fingertips, had decayed down to a sad, scrawny size, robes hanging on him forlornly. Even from a distance, Fred could see the hunched shoulders and the exhausted frame as George slumped against the wall, rubbing his hand down his face and skimming the land around them. Barely thirty, he carried himself like an old man, ready to break under the sorrows and pressures of the world that had long ago forgotten him.
Fred wanted to scream. To cry. To run to his brother and shake him and tell him that he should not look like the ghost, because Fred was supposed to be the one dead, not George. George was supposed to go on, to be happy, to have children and live for both of them.
And it was in that moment, staring at the withering body of the boy he had once been identical to, that Fred realized a horrifying truth.
George was going to die. Fred was dead but cursed to walk eternally as a monster, and George was mortal. George would die and go on, and Fred would forever be left in a world without his brother. Even if they couldn’t talk, knowing that George was walking and breathing and laughing somewhere had been the pillar needed for his sanity-the foundation of his existence. It soothed him to look up at the sky and think of all the pranks George was designing in their shop, or imagine what his brother would look like then. To know that they were both under the same heavens, even if George didn't know it.
But Fred had never realized he would age. His whole family would age. His whole family would die.
And Fred would never see them again.
Fred would be alone.
Pale blue eyes settled on the limo as George took notice of it, and Fred couldn’t hold back his agonized wail as his brother slowly rose from the wall. The aged twin’s back drew up straight, lips parting, mouthing Fred's name, distinguishable even at such a distance. Had Vincent’s arms not been clasped around him, Fred would have leaped from the car then, so impossible was the urge to resist the draw of his family, his lover, and his best friend within such a short distance. He thrashed violently against the masked male’s hold, sobbing George’s name. Vincent cursed-or tried-hissing past charred vocal chords and kicking the partition that separated the driver from his passengers, signaling him to move. The engine roared to life, and the redhead shouted in rage as the car began to drive away. The front door swung open again, Percy stepping out to join the other.
The long car rumbled down the dirt path and away from the burrow.
Fred watched as his brother got smaller, before flickering away completely behind the crest of a hill.
Percy watched the strange vehicle trail away, the cloud of dust it kicked up barely visible in the full moon that lit the land almost as bright as day. George stood stock still, wide eyed and pale, chewing violently on his lower lip.
“What in the world was that?” Percy wondered, gently grasping his brother’s elbow. George shook his head.
“My sanity.”
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