FIC: Storm Front [George Weasley, Fred Weasley]
Title: Storm front
Author: lyskasia
Prompt: #85 - A violent thunder and lightning storm happens once a century. Tonight just happens to be the night. It's the perfect energy for summoning the dead. Submitted by rzzmg
Character(s): George Weasley, Fred Weasley
Word Count: ~1650
Rating: R
Warning(s): necromancy, self - cutting (no suicide or attempt, no self-harm)
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Many thanks and an endless supply of coffee for my beta williamsnickers
Summary: Having waited for what felt like an eternity for it, he is finally about to get the most important person of his life back.
--(o)--
Thirteen years.
Thirteen years of waiting, planning, and yearning.
Thirteen years since his other half left him alone in this world and their special bond was broken.
Thirteen years perfecting the fragmentary ritual he had found in one of the Dark Magic books in Grimmauld Place.
Thirteen years of waiting to see him again.
Thirteen years feeling hollow and empty, his life a shell.
--(o)--
George adjusted the lightning rod for the umpteenth time while watching the towering clouds assembling near his cottage. Everything was set up and checked again and again. His ritual was ready and in a few minutes he would have his brother back.
It simply could not fail.
It must not fail.
--(o)--
Since that fateful night of the Battle of Hogwarts, when Fred was ripped from him so suddenly, George spent every waking second to find a chance to have his brother back with him.
The pain of the broken twin bond was still great, like a open wound in his heart, bleeding constantly. The pain had lessened over the years, only to flare at the many, many times, like when he turned around to talk with Fred or to share a new joke, only to find empty air.
George still felt as if this his twin was standing right next to him, sharing his life, sharing his soul. When, after countless sleepless nights with a phantom sleeping next to him, he shared his feelings with his family, he only got stricken or pitying looks back. He still shuddered while thinking about this moment. Nobody understood the depth of his pain, the hollow feeling where Fred used to be.
Only Harry had looked at him calculatingly, and gave him the key to the hidden library in Grimmauld Place, without ever saying a word to anybody.
--(o)--
Three years, he spent three years reading every possible and impossible book which had even the slightest mention of resurrection.
Three years he spent devouring hundreds and hundreds of books with the blackest of Dark Magic, many of them with stomach turning contents, until he finally found a thin, tattered volume of unknown origin, with many of its sides missing partly or completely.
Three years of searching to find a fragmented ritual describing a portal to the Other World.
Three years of spending every waking moment bent over books until his eyes felt gritty, only to stare at some references about lightning, and runes, without a real concept of the ritual.
Three years of hoping, and wishing.
--(o)--
George watched the storm crawling nearer to the land. The dark, storm-battered sea churned, lighted up every now and then with a lightning. Thunder rumbled nearly constantly, getting louder by the minute, until it was nearly deafening. Wind whipped his long, shaggy hair around his head, pressing uncomfortably against the stump of his ear.
Taking a deep breath, and ignoring it all, he started to walk along the deep lines carved into the stone beneath his feet, feeding his magic into the ritual circle while murmuring Gaelic words softly. George had memorized the chant since the day he had finished carving the circle; now the words were flowing from his mouth as easy as breathing.
He would not fail.
He could not fail.
--(o)--
Two years he spent painstakingly rebuilding the ritual, researching runes, chants, ley lines and power distribution.
Two years he spent researching storm patterns and lightning counts for Britain, just to find the best location to settle down.
Two years of searching for the perfect place for the ritual, finding it in a small cottage on the Isle of Skye, sitting on rock, overlooking the sea.
Two years in which he was completely alone, never seeing his family or friends, ignoring their increasingly frantic letters. .
Two years of poking at the hole in his heart, watching it bleed.
--(o)--
After the last syllable was spoken, the ritual circle lit up in soft blue light. George smiled at the sight in front of him, his first real smile since the Battle of Hogwarts. Soon everything would be prepared for the final part.
He stripped methodically, until he was nude in the roaring storm, and walked to the centre of the circle, where he had placed a low altar. Shackles where There were shackles attached at four points of the altar, intended to keep him on this side of the world when the portal to the Other World would come to life.
Grabbing a ritual knife with steady hands, George slowly started to carve the final runes onto his own flesh - over his heart and belly, then onto his feet and hands, and finally, the last shallow cuts he placed on his forehead.
He shall not fail.
He will not fail.
--(o)--
One year spent carving the perfect ritual circle into the stone in front of his cottage.
One year spent gouging deep lines and complicated runes into the ground, until his fingers would blister and bleed.
One year of lying awake at night, fretting over possible mistakes to occur.
One year of feeling pain - inside and out.
--(o)--
George lay down on the altar, activating the small runes to automatically shackle him to the massive stone slab. Unyielding metal wound around his wrists and ankles, leaving him only the smallest space to wriggle on the rock.
The thunder boomed in his ears, and he watched with bated breath as the first lightning struck the stone directly in front of his ritual circle. Small currents ran up and down his body, making the small hairs on his arms and legs stand on end.
Like in slow motion, the next lightning crawled across the dark sky, heading straight for the lightning rod.
He did not fail.
--(o)--
Seven years spent learning the words of the Gaelic chant; murmuring it constantly, like a prayer to the gods.
Seven years spent monitoring the sky, never leaving his home when the clouds promised a storm.
Seven years spent practicing cutting runes into his own flesh, bringing the pain within his soul to the surface.
Seven years of stroking the little flame of hope buried deep in his chest.
Seven years of waiting for the thunderstorm necessary to power the runes for the portal to the Other World to open - the thunderstorm that only happened once in a century.
But tonight… tonight the storm was finally here.
Tonight he would get his other half back.
--(o)--
George was bathed in white light, electricity racing along his nerves, lighting his body up in pain. He screamed into the storm, never to be heard above the crashing waves and roaring wind. Pure agony evolved him, his muscles cramping, his heart stuttering. His tendons were pulled taunt, bending his body in impossible angles, as far as the shackles gave leeway.
Had he failed?
Unseen by him, the ritual circle lit up brightly. Slowly, the light crept along the carved lines towards the centre, assembling at the foot of the altar, only to start growing up. After seemingly an eternity, the light took on a human form, growing further, till it was as tall as George. A constant stream of light from all runes, cut in stone and flesh, flowed into the figure, shaping the form with more detail, until single fingers, toes and hair could be seen.
A new lightning bolt struck the metal rod, and new waves of pain crashed over the writhing body on the stone slab. George felt as if his soul was torn into pieces, his screams hoarse in his raw throat. A last single pulse of light left the rune above his heart, slamming into the forming body standing in front of him.
Abruptly, the pain left, paradoxically hurting with it’s sudden absence, making George whimper into the dark.
Hearing a scream that wasn’t his own, George opened his teary eyes slowly, only to open them wide when he caught sight of the blurred form of his brother standing in bright light, convulsing in whichever way. He tore and jerked at his shackles, trying to reach the figure, but the metal on his wrists did not give an inch. Like a wild beast, he tried to free himself, only to be thwarted at every attempt. Breathing harshly, George sank back onto the stone, reduced to helplessly watching the ritual hurting his twin.
Fresh tears filled George’s eyes, this time not caused by his own pain, but his brother’s. It was torture to watch him like this, clawing at his own skin, screaming like Cruico was cast upon him.
“Fred”, he whispered. The name was lost in the wind and beneath the rumbling thunder.
Minutes went by until, ever so slowly, the screams got less frequent, until finally, Fred was silent. A second later, the light vanished, and with it Fred crumbled to the ground, lying unmoving.
George was overcome by panic. Did the ritual fail? Did he cause his twin pain only to fulfil his selfish wish? Why wasn’t his brother moving? Fighting back sobs, he jerked again at his restrictions, only to nearly fall off the altar when the metal gave way at the slightest tug.
He staggered to his feet and stumbled to the prone form of Fred, only to fall on his knees next to him. George reached with a shaking hand, only to sob in relief when he found a steady pulse under warm skin. He crawled closer, pulling his brother in his arms and cradling him to his body. Hot tears got lost in red hair when he buried his face in Fred’s neck.
For a long time, they sat like that, slightly rocking back and forth while the storm raged on around them.
Hearing a cough, George’s head shot upwards, his eyes searching his brother’s face for the smallest signal that he was okay. Blue eyes found his, and Fred’s pained smile was the most beautiful sight George had ever seen in his life.
“What took you so long?” The rasped question was the sweetest thing George had heard in a long time.
Laughing, he only hugged Fred tighter to his body, vowing to never let him go again.
Whatever tomorrow would bring, George could face it - together with his twin, and without an open wound in his heart.
The End.
Author: lyskasia
Prompt: #85 - A violent thunder and lightning storm happens once a century. Tonight just happens to be the night. It's the perfect energy for summoning the dead. Submitted by rzzmg
Character(s): George Weasley, Fred Weasley
Word Count: ~1650
Rating: R
Warning(s): necromancy, self - cutting (no suicide or attempt, no self-harm)
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Many thanks and an endless supply of coffee for my beta williamsnickers
Summary: Having waited for what felt like an eternity for it, he is finally about to get the most important person of his life back.
--(o)--
Thirteen years.
Thirteen years of waiting, planning, and yearning.
Thirteen years since his other half left him alone in this world and their special bond was broken.
Thirteen years perfecting the fragmentary ritual he had found in one of the Dark Magic books in Grimmauld Place.
Thirteen years of waiting to see him again.
Thirteen years feeling hollow and empty, his life a shell.
--(o)--
George adjusted the lightning rod for the umpteenth time while watching the towering clouds assembling near his cottage. Everything was set up and checked again and again. His ritual was ready and in a few minutes he would have his brother back.
It simply could not fail.
It must not fail.
--(o)--
Since that fateful night of the Battle of Hogwarts, when Fred was ripped from him so suddenly, George spent every waking second to find a chance to have his brother back with him.
The pain of the broken twin bond was still great, like a open wound in his heart, bleeding constantly. The pain had lessened over the years, only to flare at the many, many times, like when he turned around to talk with Fred or to share a new joke, only to find empty air.
George still felt as if this his twin was standing right next to him, sharing his life, sharing his soul. When, after countless sleepless nights with a phantom sleeping next to him, he shared his feelings with his family, he only got stricken or pitying looks back. He still shuddered while thinking about this moment. Nobody understood the depth of his pain, the hollow feeling where Fred used to be.
Only Harry had looked at him calculatingly, and gave him the key to the hidden library in Grimmauld Place, without ever saying a word to anybody.
--(o)--
Three years, he spent three years reading every possible and impossible book which had even the slightest mention of resurrection.
Three years he spent devouring hundreds and hundreds of books with the blackest of Dark Magic, many of them with stomach turning contents, until he finally found a thin, tattered volume of unknown origin, with many of its sides missing partly or completely.
Three years of searching to find a fragmented ritual describing a portal to the Other World.
Three years of spending every waking moment bent over books until his eyes felt gritty, only to stare at some references about lightning, and runes, without a real concept of the ritual.
Three years of hoping, and wishing.
--(o)--
George watched the storm crawling nearer to the land. The dark, storm-battered sea churned, lighted up every now and then with a lightning. Thunder rumbled nearly constantly, getting louder by the minute, until it was nearly deafening. Wind whipped his long, shaggy hair around his head, pressing uncomfortably against the stump of his ear.
Taking a deep breath, and ignoring it all, he started to walk along the deep lines carved into the stone beneath his feet, feeding his magic into the ritual circle while murmuring Gaelic words softly. George had memorized the chant since the day he had finished carving the circle; now the words were flowing from his mouth as easy as breathing.
He would not fail.
He could not fail.
--(o)--
Two years he spent painstakingly rebuilding the ritual, researching runes, chants, ley lines and power distribution.
Two years he spent researching storm patterns and lightning counts for Britain, just to find the best location to settle down.
Two years of searching for the perfect place for the ritual, finding it in a small cottage on the Isle of Skye, sitting on rock, overlooking the sea.
Two years in which he was completely alone, never seeing his family or friends, ignoring their increasingly frantic letters. .
Two years of poking at the hole in his heart, watching it bleed.
--(o)--
After the last syllable was spoken, the ritual circle lit up in soft blue light. George smiled at the sight in front of him, his first real smile since the Battle of Hogwarts. Soon everything would be prepared for the final part.
He stripped methodically, until he was nude in the roaring storm, and walked to the centre of the circle, where he had placed a low altar. Shackles where There were shackles attached at four points of the altar, intended to keep him on this side of the world when the portal to the Other World would come to life.
Grabbing a ritual knife with steady hands, George slowly started to carve the final runes onto his own flesh - over his heart and belly, then onto his feet and hands, and finally, the last shallow cuts he placed on his forehead.
He shall not fail.
He will not fail.
--(o)--
One year spent carving the perfect ritual circle into the stone in front of his cottage.
One year spent gouging deep lines and complicated runes into the ground, until his fingers would blister and bleed.
One year of lying awake at night, fretting over possible mistakes to occur.
One year of feeling pain - inside and out.
--(o)--
George lay down on the altar, activating the small runes to automatically shackle him to the massive stone slab. Unyielding metal wound around his wrists and ankles, leaving him only the smallest space to wriggle on the rock.
The thunder boomed in his ears, and he watched with bated breath as the first lightning struck the stone directly in front of his ritual circle. Small currents ran up and down his body, making the small hairs on his arms and legs stand on end.
Like in slow motion, the next lightning crawled across the dark sky, heading straight for the lightning rod.
He did not fail.
--(o)--
Seven years spent learning the words of the Gaelic chant; murmuring it constantly, like a prayer to the gods.
Seven years spent monitoring the sky, never leaving his home when the clouds promised a storm.
Seven years spent practicing cutting runes into his own flesh, bringing the pain within his soul to the surface.
Seven years of stroking the little flame of hope buried deep in his chest.
Seven years of waiting for the thunderstorm necessary to power the runes for the portal to the Other World to open - the thunderstorm that only happened once in a century.
But tonight… tonight the storm was finally here.
Tonight he would get his other half back.
--(o)--
George was bathed in white light, electricity racing along his nerves, lighting his body up in pain. He screamed into the storm, never to be heard above the crashing waves and roaring wind. Pure agony evolved him, his muscles cramping, his heart stuttering. His tendons were pulled taunt, bending his body in impossible angles, as far as the shackles gave leeway.
Had he failed?
Unseen by him, the ritual circle lit up brightly. Slowly, the light crept along the carved lines towards the centre, assembling at the foot of the altar, only to start growing up. After seemingly an eternity, the light took on a human form, growing further, till it was as tall as George. A constant stream of light from all runes, cut in stone and flesh, flowed into the figure, shaping the form with more detail, until single fingers, toes and hair could be seen.
A new lightning bolt struck the metal rod, and new waves of pain crashed over the writhing body on the stone slab. George felt as if his soul was torn into pieces, his screams hoarse in his raw throat. A last single pulse of light left the rune above his heart, slamming into the forming body standing in front of him.
Abruptly, the pain left, paradoxically hurting with it’s sudden absence, making George whimper into the dark.
Hearing a scream that wasn’t his own, George opened his teary eyes slowly, only to open them wide when he caught sight of the blurred form of his brother standing in bright light, convulsing in whichever way. He tore and jerked at his shackles, trying to reach the figure, but the metal on his wrists did not give an inch. Like a wild beast, he tried to free himself, only to be thwarted at every attempt. Breathing harshly, George sank back onto the stone, reduced to helplessly watching the ritual hurting his twin.
Fresh tears filled George’s eyes, this time not caused by his own pain, but his brother’s. It was torture to watch him like this, clawing at his own skin, screaming like Cruico was cast upon him.
“Fred”, he whispered. The name was lost in the wind and beneath the rumbling thunder.
Minutes went by until, ever so slowly, the screams got less frequent, until finally, Fred was silent. A second later, the light vanished, and with it Fred crumbled to the ground, lying unmoving.
George was overcome by panic. Did the ritual fail? Did he cause his twin pain only to fulfil his selfish wish? Why wasn’t his brother moving? Fighting back sobs, he jerked again at his restrictions, only to nearly fall off the altar when the metal gave way at the slightest tug.
He staggered to his feet and stumbled to the prone form of Fred, only to fall on his knees next to him. George reached with a shaking hand, only to sob in relief when he found a steady pulse under warm skin. He crawled closer, pulling his brother in his arms and cradling him to his body. Hot tears got lost in red hair when he buried his face in Fred’s neck.
For a long time, they sat like that, slightly rocking back and forth while the storm raged on around them.
Hearing a cough, George’s head shot upwards, his eyes searching his brother’s face for the smallest signal that he was okay. Blue eyes found his, and Fred’s pained smile was the most beautiful sight George had ever seen in his life.
“What took you so long?” The rasped question was the sweetest thing George had heard in a long time.
Laughing, he only hugged Fred tighter to his body, vowing to never let him go again.
Whatever tomorrow would bring, George could face it - together with his twin, and without an open wound in his heart.
The End.