Monsters Aren't Real, Son

Author's Note: Happy holidays to all my loyal readers! Here's a little prezzy from me to you: a mini-novelette of drama, a bit of humor, and a dose of action. I do hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: The Nightmare

October 16, 2008

George woke up to the sound of muffled whimpering. A quick glance at the clock proved insulting. Two in the bloody morning! Another damn feeding?

Annie lifted her face from the pillow next to him. "That's not Joey," she mumbled through a yawn. "Sounds like one of the boys."

"I'll get it," he muttered, only slightly amused his wife's thoughts were running in a similar vein as his. It was instinctual for them both at this point - assuming a noise in the night signaled a hungry child - even though Joey, their youngest, was three and a half now. After nearly a decade of childrearing, they'd discovered (much to their chagrin) that parental sleep deprivation didn't end with weaning.

Annie's head fell back onto her pillow. Apparently, she'd taken his offer to deal with the situation seriously. Damn, he grumbled silently as he kicked off the covers and hauled his body out of bed.

George staggered into the hallway, noting the whimpering was indeed emanating from the farthest room, just as Annie had predicted. That's odd, he thought. What in hell would cause a practically ten-year-old boy to cry in the middle of the night? Please, God, don't let it be vomit....

George reached the twins' bedroom a few moments later. Despite the large window wall, the room was dark, mostly shielded as it was from a newly-risen last-quarter-moon's light by the hill at the back of the house. Even so, he could see each bed had a boy-sized lump in it. One of them was still and quiet. The other was sitting up, crying softly.

George tentatively sniffed the air. Can't smell any sick....

He took a step toward Art's bed. With the next one, George's foot came down on something hard and sharp, and he felt it crunch beneath his weight. The toy squealed for a second as it broke into pieces. An impressive litany of profanity streamed silently in George's head, ending with... motherfucking Legos!

"Dad?" a small, frightened voice squeaked from the bed.

"What's the matter, Art? Are you ill?" George asked quietly, limping the last few steps to his son's bed. He was grateful that little Fred, just like his namesake would have done, was sleeping through the noise.

Art shook his head and sniffled.

George took a seat on the bed beside his son. To his surprise, Art then leaned against him, wrapping his arms around George's waist. He put his arm around his son's shoulders, then felt his son's forehead with the other hand. No fever.

"Art, tell me what's the matter."

"Bad dream," the boy mumbled, his face pressed against George's chest.

George began rubbing Art's back, hoping it might soothe his agitated son. "Why don't you tell me about it?"

"I was being chased," Art said and sniffled once more. "I couldn't get away."

At least the worst of the tears appear to be over, George thought with relief. He couldn't ever remember dealing with a nightmare of one of the boys' before this. They'd always been a bit mature for their ages and certainly not prone to a runaway imagination. Their creativity usually lay within more logical boundaries.

"You're safe, son. Monsters aren't real," George reminded him.

Art looked up at his father. "It wasn't a monster. It was a man."

"A man?" George asked, startled.

Art nodded. "He was dressed in black and had long yellow hair and scary eyes...."

An unholy, infuriating image came to George's mind. Malfoy? Art dreamed about Malfoy? George seethed as a surge of fury and hatred boiled in his blood. The bastard's name had come to mind more than a few times lately, with all that stupid Governing Board business with Umbridge.

Meanwhile, Art continued with the description of his dream. "We saw him once... at the Leaky Cauldron. You were going to fight him, I remember. He's a bad man, isn't he, Dad?"

Words could not describe how massively disturbed George was that Art remembered the incident. He'd been less than two years old, for Merlin's sake, when they'd gone to the Cauldron for Ginny's birthday and had the unfortunate encounter with the Malfoys. For his son's sake, George brought his heart rate back under control.

"I would never let anything happen to you, Art," he assured the boy.

"I know," Art mumbled. "But you weren't there in my dream; it was at school. He was chasing me... in the corridors... down into the dungeons. I think it was scarier because I know he's real. Was he a Death Eater, Dad?"

"Where did you hear that word?" George demanded angrily. I will wring Ron's bloody neck if he's been spouting war stories in front of the kids again!

Art shrank within George's embrace, taken aback by his father's angry tone. "S-some kids at school.... They were talking about the war," he answered timidly.

George took a deep breath. Maybe Annie's right. Maybe they are too young to be at Hogwarts with all those bigger kids.... "Nobody has to be afraid of Death Eaters anymore, Art. They're gone now."

"You were in the Order, weren't you, Dad?"

Christ! He knows about this, too? "Yes," George replied softly, reluctantly.

"And you fought against Death Eaters?" Art pressed.

George sighed. Better he hears the truth from me, rather than a lot of exaggeration and lies from somebody else, I suppose. "Yes. A lot of people did."

"Did you... did you kill any?" Art stammered.

That's as far as this goes tonight. He's not even ten bloody years old yet! "It's very late, Art. You have school tomorrow. Do you think you can get back to sleep now?" George asked with a calmness he most assuredly did not feel.

Art nodded hesitantly. George stood up and Art lay down, allowing his father to tuck the blankets in around him.

"G'night, Dad."

"Good night, son," George said softly. After only a second's hesitation, he bent to place a quick kiss on his boy's forehead. He turned around and, carefully, so as not to lift his feet and impale himself on some other lethal contraption masquerading as a child's toy, left the room.

George did not return directly to his own bed. Instead, he tiptoed past his door, down the stairs, through the living room, then down into his basement workshop. He turned on the lights with a midair flick of his fingers, poked through the contents of a plastic cup, searching for a useable quill, then rifled through a stack of parchment rolls for an appropriately small piece. Once he'd assembled the necessary tools for correspondence, he summoned a stool and began to write.

Ron,

Next time you do a raid on Malfoy Manor, I want to volunteer. The sooner, the better.

- G.

"Sorry, mate," George muttered quietly as Horatio, the family owl, protested against being awakened so rudely. He fastened the note to the bird's leg, then opened one of the workshop's windows. "At least it's a lovely night for a jaunt to London," he argued with the owl's irritated expression.

George could have sworn the owl made a very rude noise as he launched himself into the air and flapped his great wings silently. As he watched the beast disappear into the night, it occurred to him that the rest of the world, most likely including his brother's family, was sound asleep. Or if not asleep....

Maybe I'll get a bit of revenge and interrupt the two of them for a change... he chuckled to himself.