A/N: I was thinking today, something I rarely do, especially during the summer as it causes ones brain to strain horribly, and usually leads to more thinking, which leads to the inevitable epiphany or two, which only leads to yet some more thinking about said epiphany, which in turn causes this horrible cycle of brainwaves to repeat, yet again. So, like I said, I try to avoid it. But today, for reasons unknown, I was thinking. And, even more bizarrely, I was thinking about this book I read for school. It's called The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien, and it is one of the strangest books I've ever read in my life, but also one of my all time favorites. I won't go on too much about it as I suspect at least some of you have probably been forced to read it like me, and, if you haven't, should definitely read it sometime in the near future because it's an amazing book. But anyways, what this uber-long paragraph is trying to say is that thinking about this book gave me the idea for this story. So, now that I've successfully put you all to sleep with my egotistical rantings, enjoy!
Disclaimer: Is J. K. Rowling really that full of herself that she'd write a six line authors note to introduce her own story? No, I didn't think so.
The Mysterious Scorch Mark
The room wasn't a shrine. George had made it a point not to save every last one of Fred's few possessions. Not to hang pictures of him on every conceivable surface. Not to leave random trinkets and knick-knacks lying around that might spark a memory.
But there was one thing in that room he simply couldn't bring himself to remove.
The scorch mark.
/-o0o-/
It was a crisp, clear September's day, and business at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was slow. The vast majority of prank shop customers were now safely tucked away at school, so that the only patrons thus far today had been a few over-eager ten year olds, and their reluctant, verging on disapproving parents. Nevertheless, a business day was a business day, so George was down at the shop waiting on the sparse pool of customers, whilst Fred was upstairs in the loft, toiling through the dull task of sorting shipping records. Needless to say, the twins had seen more interesting days.
Thankfully though, the day was winding down and closing time was soon upon them. By the time the clock struck eight George wasted no time in shooing his nonexistent customers out the door and charming a giant, blinking "Closed" sign to the front window. That being done he rubbed his hands together gleefully and rushed upstairs to grab Fred and head out for awhile. It was Friday night, after all.
As George rounded the top of the stairs he noticed the scorch mark immediately. Approximately 5ft long and 1ft wide, the color of ash stark against the lightwood floor, it would have been nearly impossible to miss.
George opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it and closed it again. He looked up at his twin perplexedly. Fred met his gaze and then traced his line of vision back to the scorch mark. When Fred looked back at his twin his eyebrows were arched in an expression of polite confusion. Grinning from ear to ear, Fred kicked off the ground and sent his spinning chair ricocheting away from his desk with a flourish. Then he stood and took a few bounding steps over towards his deeply confounded twin.
"Funny story that," Fred said, nodding towards the giant black abyss on the floor. Then, without pause, he launched into it. "See, I was sitting in here, slaving away at those damn shipping records, when all of a sudden I notice this fly buzzing around my head. Just your normal, run of the mill, perpetually irritating black fly, right? So I figure he'll buzz around for a bit and then get bored and buzz off. But the thing is, he doesn't. He just keeps flying around my head, buzzing like there's no tomorrow. Which, for him at least, there wasn't, but I'm getting to that part."
Fred was truly a storyteller at heart, George mused, as he listened to Freds dramatic retelling, watched his elaborate hand gestures and took note of that excited twinkle in his eye. He could spin a tale out of nothing and make it seem like the most interesting thing you'd ever heard in your life. Turn even the most piteous occurrences into epic adventures. Get you to laugh out loud as he recounted something as mundane as his breakfast choices that morning. It was one of the things George admired most about his twin. He had a bit of the exaggerated storytelling gift himself, but certainly not in the spades Fred seemed to posses it in. Fred probably could have cut it as a modern day Brother Grim, if he so desired.
"…So anyways," Fred was saying, waving his hands about to further illustrate his point, "This fly just keeps on buzzing and buzzing, and I just keep on getting more and more ready to murder that annoying little sonofabitch. Until finally, I just can't take it anymore. So, what I do is, I pull out one of those fireball gum prototypes, and I rip off a little piece of one. Then I put it in the palm of my hand and hold it up to the fly. And you know what that fly does?"
"Eats it?" George guessed.
"Nah," Replied Fred, "That would have been too easy. The little cretin wouldn't even go near it. I had to use my wand and charm the thing down its esophagus. It was kind of tricky, you know, aiming and all, but when I finally got it down, man, was it worth it."
Fred paused for a bit, savoring the anticipation he'd built. Then, as though unable to hold back any longer he continued.
"The fly exploded!" He exclaimed excitedly, jumping up and down and waving his arms like a lunatic to further dramatize his pronouncement. "Turned into a fireball as big as me and left that-" here he gestured to the scorch mark, "-In it's wake!"
"And that," he pronounced grandly, taking a slight, nearly unconscious bow, "Is the story of the scorch mark."
George raised his eyebrow sarcastically, "A fly," he said, "Did that?"
He gestured to the blackened floor and Fred nodded morosely.
George shrugged and spared the floor one last curious glance. "No kidding." He said finally, before both twins put on their new dragonhide jackets and left the shop for a night on the town.
/-o0o-/
About a week later Oliver Wood came to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes for a visit.
"Woah!" He bellowed, as he rounded the top of the stairs to the twins loft and noticed the 5ft long black streak across the twins floor, "What the hell is that!?"
"That, my dear friend," began Fred, grinning genially as he took the stairs two at a time to catch up with Oliver, "Is a scorch mark."
Oliver nodded dumbly. "I see," He said blandly, "How did it get there?"
"Funny you should ask," Replied George, who was also nearing the top of the stairs now.
"-Cuz it's a really funny story," Fred finished for him, before gesturing to a chair and launching into it, "You see…"
/-o0o-/
"… And so, to make a long story short, I was finally able to get the poor fella under control after awhile, but not before he left that." Fred gestured to the scorch mark with a flourish and grinned at a story well told.
"And that." He finished importantly, "Is the story of the scorch mark."
Oliver's eyebrows had risen higher and higher as the story progressed. Now they threatened to rise clean off his face. "…A fire-breathing goat." He stated after a turn, slowly, seeming to taste the ludicrousness of his words as they left his mouth.
"Yup," Fred confirmed, not at all put off by his incredulousness, "A fire-breathing goat. I'm telling you, those peppermint patties are strong. And evidently, they don't exactly agree with a goats system."
"Evidently." Repeated Oliver, still eyeing the offending scorch mark.
Later, when Oliver had left and the twins were getting ready to turn in, George cornered Fred. "You told me an exploding fly caused that scorch mark." He explained, "You told Oliver it was a fire-breathing goat."
Fred shrugged nonchalantly. "No kidding." He replied, before sauntering towards the bathroom to brush his teeth, and try and wipe that self-pleased smirk off his smug face.
/-o0o-/
Over the next year, the story of the scorch mark changed with each retelling.
When Bill and Charlie visited, a psycho-ward, St. Mungo's escapee had somehow managed to make his way into the twins loft, and conjure a giant, flaming pineapple. When Angelina and Alicia visited, the story took on a bit more of an epic note. They'd accidentally conjured a wild griffin from the forests of Albania, and he'd decided that Fred and George looked tasty enough to eat for dinner. In the resulting duel that followed Fred and George had used every spell they knew, and finally managed to subdue the fearsome creature, but not before leaving the giant scorch mark, as testimony to their heroic battle. And still, though George was quite happy with the formers epic proportions, the story changed again when told to Katie Bell. This time becoming a bittersweet tale of Fred and George's plan to adopt a baby dragon, predictably gone awry.
/-o0o-/
Two years later, and there it was. That very same mysterious scorch mark, lying there on the now slightly dusty, lightwood floor.
George had never learned the true story of that scorch mark. It was one of the few secrets Fred had kept from him. A secret he kept to the grave.
Somehow, childishly, George had always assumed that some day Fred would confide in him the real story. That making up new stories would be fun for a time, but eventually his well of imagination would run dry, and he'd have no choice left but to tell George the truth.
Perhaps he even had told George the truth in one of his many dramatic retellings. Or perhaps not. It seemed that George would never know.
Surprisingly enough though, this did not bother the usually curious twin. Rather, it seemed strangely- fitting.
The thing about an untold story is this: It can be anything you want. Anything at all. And there's a magic to that. Nope, not the kind with wands. A different kind.
Maybe the scorch mark had been caused by something as mundane as an accidental spell from the wand in Fred's back pocket. Or maybe Fred really had met a cannibalizing ogre who'd attempted to roast his body over an open flame. Who's to say? Either way, whenever George laid eyes on that scorch mark, it gave him an excuse to think of his twin.
These stories weren't memories. He wasn't drowning in nostalgia. He was simply thinking of Fred in a way his rambunctious twin would have appreciated. In the present tense, and in the most hilarious means possible.
'Dude, have you ever heard of a little thing called breath mints?' he'd say as he was dangling over the searing flames, waiting to be ripped to shreds and eaten alive by an ogre who's breath smelled like feet?
…Or 'Too bad, I was really looking forward to reading that," He'd say as he accidentally lit one of the shipping records on fire, even as he gathered more to feed the flames.
Because the thing was, Fred was dead. And he was never coming back. George knew this.
But through the stories of the mysterious scorch mark, for a precious few moments, his twin grew alive in ways George would never have imagined.
Yes, he was dead. But sometimes, through stories, Fred laughed, and he joked and he pranked. And lived on.
/-o0o-/
"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed, as he rounded the top of the stairs behind George, "Do I even want to know how that got there!?"
He was pointing at that pesky scorch mark of course. Forcing George to cut off his musings and turn to his younger brother.
"Funny story that," He began, grinning from ear to ear, eager to see how this one would turn out.
A/N: Hope you liked it! Reviews always appreciated!