Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Chapter Nine — Torn

"I’m all out of faith, this is how I feel

I’m cold and I am shamed, lying naked on the floor

Illusion never changed into something real

Wide awake, and I can see the perfect sky is torn —

You’re a little late, I’m already torn."

-Natalie Imbruglia

Monday, November 3, 2003

George shoveled breakfast into his mouth mechanically on his first morning as a Hogwarts professor. He was barely conscious of Hermione sitting next to him and engaging Snape in some conversation or another. The roar of children laughing over their eggs and sausage wasn’t enough to distract him from the picture burned into his mind. Three graves beneath the willow tree.

"... George Weasley, your new Transfiguration Professor." He jerked back to reality as Minerva smiled over in his direction and the tables applauded politely. "He’s spent the last three years as an Auror in good standing with the Ministry and has been called from duty early to take my old position." George was grateful. No mention of his brothers or his dismissal from the service due to Fred and Percy’s betrayal of the Light. "George is also an Animagus. Any questions about the process to become an Animagus can now be directed to Professor Weasley."

He smiled as best he could at the excited expressions on a few of the student’s faces. It had been the ultimate prank — Gred and Forge, the Gryffindor Animagi, just like the fabled Marauders had been. George sighed softly and dropped his fork, moving his gaze down to his hands. Had Fred used the form he’d spent so long perfecting to sneak behind Auror lines and help Voldemort kill those George knew?

"Are you listening to me?" George glanced up in surprise at Hermione, who poked him sharply in the ribs. "George, Minerva just announced a meeting before classes. Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Fine," he murmured, pushing himself to his feet.

Hermione shook her head and pulled him back into his chair. "It’s a few minutes yet. No need to rush off." She reached over and snatched a newspaper from between Snape and Demitrius, the Herbology Professor after Sprout’s death. "You haven’t read the headlines, have you."

George stared at the paper blankly. There, in Muggle black and white, was the outline of the Dark Mark as it floated above a suburban home. "Strange shape seen in Cincinnati sky, three found dead," he read softly. "The Black family? Wait, this is a Muggle newspaper. Mione, is the Black family —?"

"Yeah," she whispered. "I think Harry’s dead. If you keep reading the story, there are some photographs inside. It says Harold Black was a lawyer at a firm in Cincinnati, and there’s a picture of his wife and son." Hermione swallowed loudly and bit her lip, tears visibly forming in her eyes. "If he couldn’t even escape Voldemort by leaving everything behind, what does that mean for us?"

With a quick squeeze of her hand, George tossed the paper aside. "Come down to my room after classes today? We can have a drink and cry. You can’t do it here, Mione."

"I know." She glanced over as McGonagall rose from her seat and followed suit. "Time to put on a happy face for the students."

"If I don’t watch it, I’ll be as sour as Snape," George murmured, allowing himself a wry grin as he stood and followed Hermione out of the Great Hall.

She smirked back at him. "He’s not forgiven you for that stunt you pulled in your last year with the Canary Cream and dye in the Polyjuice Potion."

George sighed happily in remembrance. "Severus Snape, the psychedelic pink canary. Angie and Katie thought it was the best prank we ever pulled — even better than the toilet seats on Christmas." Angelina and Katie, best friends buried side by side in Ottery St. Catchpole, killed in the same, terrible accident. The smile faded. "Me and Alicia are the only Gryffindors from my year left."

Minerva pushed open the door of the Headmistress’ office up ahead and gestured for the teachers to come forward. Whatever response Hermione may’ve had was put off. "I’m sure you’ve all read the paper which I passed around this morning. The Cincinnati Enquirer is a well-respected Muggle paper. There’s no way we’ll be able to Obliviate the thousands of American Muggles who get that paper every morning."

"Harold Black was a wizard, then?" Demetrius Dendron asked. He reminded George of Neville — another grave in Ottery St. Catchpole.

McGonagall shot Dendron a glance to silence him. "Indeed. And not just any wizard. However... the paper was wrong in a few places. Only one died yesterday. The other two bodies were transfigured to throw off the Muggle police — though I’m quite positive Voldemort knows that Mr. Black is alive."

Hermione let out a cry and grabbed George’s arm. He was dragged past Minerva and into the office, face to face with Remus Lupin and a scruffy-haired, green-eyed, lightning-bolt scarred — "Oh, Harry, I thought you were dead!" Hermione shouted, throwing her arms around him. Harry Potter.

Harry looked up, glancing blankly to Hermione’s bushy, sobbing head before meeting George’s gaze. His eyes looked dead, glassy from crying. "Ron?" he asked softly.

George turned and fled.

"That was George," Hermione murmured. "Ron’s in Los Angeles."

Harry’s gaze moved slowly from the doorway to Hermione. He sighed mournfully and didn’t respond.

Hermione glanced over to Remus in confusion. His response was a shrug. "That’s the first thing he’s said since Ron brought him from the wreckage. His wife was killed."

In response, he whispered something inaudible and broke into a sob. Hermione hugged him close. "Is Ron going to come home? Now that Harry’s back? We can help him together, I think."

"He’s a father," Remus offered. "The baby is asleep in Minerva’s room. He won’t tell us what his son’s name is. Or his wife’s name... or anything. Poppy said he’s in some sort of shock."

"I thought that seeing you might pull him out of it," McGonagall noted. She leaned against the doorframe, the sneer of Severus Snape and the eager glances of Flitwick and Hagrid visible past her shoulder.

"He thought George was Ron," she murmured. "Ron looks odd now, with that ridiculous goatee. Minerva, take him down to George’s classroom? Maybe that would snap him out of it again?" Hermione looked at Harry. His eyes stared back, blankly.

George lowered himself slowly into his chair, trying to keep his hands from shaking. There were no students in the classroom yet, and for that, he was extremely grateful. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Bloody Left. Running was the only way he could keep himself from hitting the bastard hard enough to set his head spinning.

The door opened and George’s gaze snapped over to watch impassively. A short, dark haired girl — probably a sixth or seventh year — with long, bouncing curls crept into the classroom, holding a pile of textbooks. She smiled winningly.

George put on his best Snape-face as stared back with a firm scowl. He pulled out his class lists and glanced at his Monday morning. Seventh year Slytherins. He scowled menacingly. She beamed back. "Class doesn’t start for a half-hour. Why are you here already?"

"I want to be an animagus!" she proclaimed, tossing her ebony curls over a shoulder. "Dina Nott, Slytherin Prefect. What animal do you become?"

Not a Malfoy. At least she wasn’t another bloody Malfoy. "A fox." A bright red fox, the same exact shade as his Weasley-red hair. Fred had been a coyote. Fred, the trickster.

"A fox? Oh. That’s too bad. At least you weren’t a rat or something equally horrid. Or a weasel. Wouldn’t that be funny, Weasley the Weasel?" She tittered and tossed her hair again, obviously incredibly amused by her own sense of humor.

"Mm," George replied, hoping that a non-committal answer would get her off his back, if only for a moment. He thought he made a rather striking fox.

Dina Nott kept smiling. "Well, then, how do I do it? I’m sure it can’t be that hard. After all, plenty of Gryffindors have done it in the past."

He bit his lip, and remained silent. He had the sudden urge to find the Seventh-year Slytherin Girl’s Dormitory and test several of the pranks Fred had invented which had never made it to production. She was doing more than asking for it. She was begging, on hands and knees, to be made the center of a spectacular prank... and now he was a teacher. George glared coldly and shuffled through his course schedules.

Dina’s cheerful smile morphed into a superior smirk as she settled back into her chair. She seemed content in having insulted someone of much higher standing within the school society. George let her. He may have lost the power of prank with the loss of his childhood, but he’d gained the power of detention.

Before George had time to respond, the door of the classroom slammed open once again. He barely had time to register the faces in the door before Dina Nott was on her feet, eyes wide in shock. "Harry... Potter...?"

The blank gaze focused squarely on George, who stared back in defiance. Harry didn’t respond. He slowly flickered his gaze around the Transfiguration classroom before returning to George. When he finally spoke, his voice was harsh and low, clouded by emotion. "Ron? Where’s Dumbledore?"

For George, the world went red. The boy who lived, returning to ignore the family who took him in — George lept to his feet, kicking his chair out of the way and made a mad dash for the door. Dina yelped, Professor McGonagall called his name in horror... and George’s fist connected with Harry’s nose.

He figured he should be grateful to whomever pulled him off the Man Who Left, holding him back to keep him from doing any more harm to Dumbledore’s precious golden boy. "God damn you, Potter!" he spat, making sure to keep every word clear enough for the daft git to understand. "You left! Fred’s dead, Bill’s dead, Percy’s dead! Why’d you fucking leave us!?"

It was Snape who had his shoulders and led him from the classroom. Dragged him, more like it. George didn’t bother to fight. His first day on the job, and he’d already managed to slug Britain’s last hope.