Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Chapter Twenty-Four — Someone’s Son

"I don’t think Mother Nature intended

For Charlie to leave the world today.

I don’t think Mother Nature intended

For Charlie to leave the world this way."

-The Blenders, "Charlie Anyboy"

Monday, November 10, 2003

George smoothed down Hermione’s hair as she slept curled up at his side. The pale light of dawn shone through the window in her bedroom, and James was still asleep in the crib she’d transfigured from a funny-looking table hidden away in one of Filch’s storerooms. It was put to better use now, anyway — he didn’t have a clue why someone would wish to have a table with a net across the middle of it. Ridiculous waste of space.

He crawled out of bed and pulled on a pair of boxers, padding into the front room to keep from waking either of them. His parents had left early in the morning for a safehouse in Wales, along with Mrs. Blaise Weasley. He’d wanted to scream last night — it was too much to take in. Fred had eloped with a Death Eater, and now after his death would be the father of her child.

He thought he’d begun to recover, even if only a little. Waking up with Hermione in the room wasn’t like waking up and knowing instinctively that his twin was only a few feet away. That’s how it had been for twenty-five years. They’d shared a cradle, a room, a flat. They’d planned to share a wedding, but Angelina and Katie steadfastly refused. They wanted to get Angelina and Katie pregnant at around the same time too, so their kids would be as close to twins as they’d been, even if they definitely wouldn’t look the same.

And then Angelina and Katie died on the same day in the same explosion, making the finishing touches on Angelina’s wedding dress. And the twins mourned together, the same way they’d had each other when the family mourned for Bill. Mourned for Harry, too — but Fred and George, Gred and Forge, they’d blamed him.

But Fred had finally gone and taken a step without his George. Fred was a Death Eater. Fred was a spy. Fred was gone.

So what was George without his Fred? Half of a pair that had shared every joy and hardship. Half of a person.

George picked up the paper from where an owl had delivered it — the early edition of the Daily Prophet, from its temporary headquarters in Glasgow. "Death Eaters Storm King’s Alley," it proclaimed in huge type. The death toll was frightening, worse even than the Walton-on-Thames Massacre, in which Bill died. The first attack, that had been, the first Bloody Sunday. And in the wizarding world, which numbered only in the hundreds of thousands in all of Britain, the seven hundred casualties were staggering. King’s Alley... was reporting two THOUSAND.

Hands shaking, the paper dropped back to the table and George fled into the bathroom, getting into the shower without taking his boxers off again and turning the water on as cold and as hard as it would go. Classes to teach. A job to do. He couldn’t lose it today, despite all that had happened. He was a Gryffindor, part of the legacy of a powerful warrior of the wizarding world. He would not give up. But he shook in the icy cold water and didn’t notice the tears rolling down his face.

Someone reached in and turned the water off. Blinking away the tears, which clouded his gaze, he shivered as a gust of cold air blew from the bedroom. Hermione stepped into the shower and wrapped her arms around him, somehow understanding that what he needed was to be held.

A simple hug. Like Fred would’ve done without question. She was holding him now.

George took a shuddering breath and held her back. "I’m sorry," he whispered, "I didn’t mean to wake you up."

"You needed me," she replied simply, rubbing her hand up and down his back in a gesture so comforting and reminiscent of Molly Weasley that George had to fight down hysterical laughter. "I’m here, and I’ll keep being here for as long as you want. As long as you need me."

"Blaise was right, you know. Who knows what’s going to happen tomorrow? We might wake up and find You-Know-Who standing at the end of the bed. Time for carpe diem and all that. Seize the day." George shivered and huddled against Hermione’s dressing gown for warmth.

She turned him toward the door, ignoring the steady drip of water down his back, and led him into the bedroom. "Isn’t that what we’ve done? Seized the day, I mean? We’d certainly be an unlikely couple otherwise." Hermione sat him down on the edge of the bed, and summoned a towel from across the room, wringing the wetness from his hair without a second thought.

But George noticed how easily they’d fallen into the household pattern. "The broken prankster and the heart-broken scholar an unlikely couple? Perish the thought!" He slipped his arms around her waist and snuggled his face against the flannel of the tartan dressing gown. "I suppose we’ve seized the day, alright, but what would’ve become of us if we hadn’t? Some might call it fate."

"Or blind luck," Hermione countered. She tossed the towel to the floor and ruffled his still-damp hair. "I don’t know. At least you’re kinda cute."

George put on a fake pout. "Only kinda cute? I’m hurt." He pulled her down into a playful wrestle over the sheets, which halted as suddenly as it had begun. Propping himself up on an elbow, he met her eyes, expression grave. "You’re the first person I’ve wanted to be with, since Katie died."

"And you’re the first I’ve trusted since Ron," she murmured, closing her eyes in a suppression of pain. He reached over to brush a curly lock of hair from her face, then gave in and pulled her body next to his, clinging tightly.

"This isn’t just because I needed to forget Fred, you know. Carpe diem or not, I need you. We need each other." The last was said forcefully, as if there was a fear of rejection hidden beneath the plea.

Hermione heard it. "Healing isn’t going to be a short bit of time. For either of us. This damnable war has taken so much. So many -" A choked sob cut off her words. And they held each other close.

A knock at the front door of her rooms interrupted the moment. With a resigned sigh, Hermione rose to get it, though George grabbed up his wrinkled robe from the day before and pulled it around himself to accompany her. James was fussing, so he scooped the baby into his arms as he followed Hermione around heaps of ungraded rolls of parchment to the door.

The teary-eyed girl standing in the entryway couldn’t have been more than a third year. Her robes proclaimed her to be a Gryffindor. George wracked his brain for her name — Sarah? Sylvia? "Professor Granger, come quick!" she panted, sobbing loudly.

Hermione was kneeling in front of the girl in moments. "What is it, Sadie? What’s wrong?"

"Outside! By the Forest! I was out practicing on my broom before breakfast, and I saw a man in black robes dump something by the forest and he ran off and I ran down and -"

George stepped over and rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder, trying to calm her and keep James quiet at the same time. "It’s alright, Sadie, we can help. What did the man dump?"

Sadie, wide-eyed, looked back and forth between the two professors. "It was a body," she whispered, lip trembling before another sob. "A man — blood all over — and his arms were at funny angles — he’s dead -"

Hand on her shoulder, George propelled the little girl into the front room. "Sadie, can you stay here and watch James for me? This is James Potter, isn’t he cute? I need to go get help."

She nodded dully, taking the baby automatically. Grabbing shoes from just inside the door, George tossed a handful of powder into the fireplace and yelled out, "Minerva, meet me outside the front hall! It’s urgent!"

"Sadie, one of us will be right back up here. Don’t go anywhere, and if there’s a problem, take a handful of the green powder and call into the fire for Madame Pomfrey to come to Professor Granger’s room, alright?" Hermione was instructing the frightened child, her shoes already pulled on.

Leaving the door hanging open, they dashed out into the nearly deserted halls. "That’s Sadie Brown, the new Chaser. She’s not supposed to be out this early..."

George reached over and grabbed Hermione’s hand, giving a squeeze as they approached the massive front entrance. Minerva was already standing there. "What -?"

"A body, near the Quidditch field," George reported curtly, slipping immediately into Auror mode. He pushed open the doors and squinted into the early morning light, aware of Hermione and Minerva falling into step behind him. It was a mad dash — down the path, across the Quidditch field, over to the edge of the forest.

And there, a lump of black against the green background of the grass. George sped up, reaching the bundle of cloth and flesh before Hermione and Minerva could catch up. The November morning was chill, he finally realized, as he was wearing merely a thin outer robe and boxers underneath.

He turned the body over, hands soaked with blood merely from touching it. Glazed blue eyes stared back blankly. Ernie MacMillian. "Oh my God," he heard Hermione whisper from above him. Despite the blood and gore, the terrible death the poor sod had likely met, one thing stood out in contrast against his skin — a place where the gore had been wiped away to highlight the mark.

A lightning-bolt shaped scar was carved deeply into the dead man’s forehead.

~

Harry was sure he wasn’t supposed to have arrived at the door to the infirmary at the moment he did. But now it was too late. He’d seen it. Seen HIM, the body lying on a white-sheeted cot. The message was clear. Oh, was the message clear — ringing out like a siren.

A lightning-bolt scar carved into Ernie’s forehead.

Ernie hadn’t ever been one of Harry’s favourite people, not since the Hufflepuff boy had accused him of being the Heir of Slytherin and out to kill Justin Finch-Fletchley during their second year of schooling. He’d been a bit of a bully sometimes, though loyal and hardworking as any bearing the Hufflepuff badge. One of the top minds in his House, Harry thought he remembered. Not like it mattered anymore. No one would remember that about his life.

They’d most certainly remember his death.

Kidnapped. Tortured. Murdered. All to send a message. A message carved by a butcher's knife onto his very flesh. The lightning-bolt on the forehead... POTTER carved across his chest... the Dark Mark carved into his arm... It was disgusting to behold, more wretched a thing than Harry had even thought Voldemort capable of. It was monstrous.

Kill the spare.

Harry heard the words echoing through his head. The flash of green light, the body of Cedric Diggory crumpling to the floor — that had been simple. Clean, even as it was monstrous. Sirius Black — his death just as clean. Rachel. With some, a Cruciatus or two, but nothing, NOTHING compared to the monstrosity of death and cruelty given evidence by the body lying on the cot. Brutal. Vulgar.

Inhuman.

The whole room smelled of blood and gore. Harry was barely aware of conversations happening around him. "... classes cancelled ..." "... no students outside ..." "... guard the dormitories at night ..." "... my god, Minerva ..." Piercing shrieks, cries of anguish, sobs of grief and horror.

Harry turned and stumbled through the crowd of people, not registering who stood in his way. A hand gripped his shoulder, but he shrugged away, rushing, running full-out toward the lavatory.

Inside, he splashed water over his face, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. He looked up in the mirror. Gaunt, haunted face — piercing green eyes —

Lightning-bolt shaped scar.

Harry collapsed next to the toilet bowl and retched.