With the Stars

by Klingon Chik

Society kills--but in this world, nobody seems to care. (Fred POV)

AN: The elements in this story--the slash, the rape--weren't added in just to make an interesting story.  They were added to raise gay awareness.  I don't believe that I've ever seen a fanfiction do this subject justice--not even mine sends the message that I wish it would, but I think it's only right to try.

I want to dedicate this to a beautiful person named Laina Finnegan--known on fanfiction.net as Cedric Finnegan--for opening my eyes to a world that is rarely touched upon, especially in fanfiction.  These are the people that the world needs more of.  (And I just fixed the name... misspelled it.  O_o;  Go me??)

So I do hope you'll give this a chance, and I also hope that you'll review, and show me that Laina and I aren't the only ones who care.

With the Stars

Klingon Chik

He was screwed up.

And his problems weren't the "oh, it's just hormones" kind.  He was seriously troubled and in trouble.  When a guy accidentally shoved him into a wall, he let out a huge cry and nearly fainted, and that was when I became aware of his injuries--bruises on his forearms, skinless parts on his shoulders and legs where he had scrubbed them furiously in the shower.  After that I watched him closely, though without letting on that I had him under meticulous scrutiny--and I was sickened to see his actions, and I wondered how I had managed to miss such obvious signs of his internal torment.

He didn't even try to mask his depression--as I watched him, I felt increasingly ashamed that I didn't notice.  When Lee and I chatted animatedly, he sat with a fake smile pasted on his face, or else he stared blankly ahead.  He tossed and turned all night, and only picked at his food.  And he seemed constantly confused and disheveled.

Instead of confronting him straight out--I had the feeling that that would only aggravate things--I approached him one evening and sat next to him as he gazed out the window, eyes full of a strange sort of longing.  "Hey," I said, grinning and trying to act cheerful.  "You know, there's a better place to stargaze, if that's what you're looking to do."  He smiled at me, and, feeling encouraged, I grabbed his arm (carefully) and took him downstairs and outside.  We plopped down against the herbology greenhouses, where we had a great view of the lake--the moon was almost full; a little sliver was missing, but George seemed satisfied as he stared intently at the sky, his hand near mine.  I glanced at his enormous bruises, magically magnified in the pale moonlight.

"I fell," said George simply, startling me.

"Sure you did," I said uncertainly, not buying it for a second.  He caught my tone and sighed, but he didn't press the subject.  Instead, he shifted so that his head was on my shoulder.  We continued staring at the sky.  Then I blurted out, "What is it about the stars that fascinates you?"

"The beauty," he answered predictably, and closed his eyes.  I shrugged.  Suddenly he added on to his response.  "And the idea behind the sky.  Maybe it isn't an actual, written thing--when you hear about associations with the sky, you think about Krishna and Greek mythology and all that sort of stuff.  But my idea is different, and I don't think I'm the only one who looks at the sky and wonders what it would be like to live there--like, what it would be like to throw yourself off a cloud."  He turned to me.  "Or maybe it isn't just the sky, in particular.  I like the idea of falling."

"That would kill you," I said, laughing awkwardly.

He pretended to consider my words.  "Yeah, I suppose it would."

Though I could've asked him right then what his problem was, I didn't.  I had decided that if I had to know what it was, it would be him who would tell me, without my twisting his arm.  He seemed to appreciate my discretion and snuggled closer to me, his eyes misted over in a fine veil of tears.

I bit my lip.  "I'm here for you, you know."

"I know."

And he did know.  For maybe a week things returned to almost normal--he talked more, ate more, smiled more.  Then, when things started sliding downhill for him again, I began to worry if I should go ahead and tell Madam Pomfrey or someone.  I was sure his wounds were self-inflicted, and I didn't know how to protect him from himself without adult intervention.  I fretted over this constantly, to such an extent where I couldn't sleep.  It was only then that I noticed how late George came to bed.  Then one night he crawled through the portrait hole at three in the morning, his hands clamped firmly over his mouth.

"George?  Are you okay?"

He was breathing really hard but he didn't remove his hands.  His eyes were wide, and I wondered with terror if he was in hysterics.

"George!  I can get Madam Pomfrey, if you--"

"No," he gasped out, and blood just rushed from his mouth, splashing down the front of his robes. Horrified, I reached out for him, and he clung onto me desperately tight, still choking for breath.  A second later, he began to swiftly lose consciousness, and I dragged him to the bathroom and pressed a towel to his face.  The blood was coming from inside his mouth--where?  Please, don't let it be an internal hemorrhage.  I loosened his clothing, looking around frantically for any injuries that might hint towards internal bleeding.  There were no open cuts, but the bruises had doubled in size and quantity.

"What's happening to you?" I moaned, then I seized his chin and made him open his mouth.  I finally found the source of the bleeding--a missing tooth in the back, and a bunch of cuts where it looked like someone had smacked him in the face.  He did have a gigantic bump rising under his right eye--unusual, I thought vaguely, because people hit with the hands that they wrote with.  Assuming George's attacker had been facing him, he would've had to be left handed to hit him from the right.

Now that I knew he wasn't bleeding internally, I was able to relax a little, and I managed to calm George down and began to carefully wipe the blood from his mouth.  He was feverish, and he kept on saying, "Don't get Pomfrey, oh please, Fred, don't get Pomfrey!"

"Well, you'd better tell me what's going on, then," I said grimly.

Then the most horrific story poured out of him, between sobs and hiccoughs: "It's not my fault!  I-I just wanted someone t-to love me--you understand, right, Fred?  Someone--someone to love me.  And I love him, too--but just sometimes, he loves me too much, you see--sometimes it gets rougher.  But I know how things work--if you told someone, it would be bad; he'd get in trouble.  You'd say it was abuse, but it isn't, not really.  You can't take him away from me because he's all I've got!"

I paused.  "Another man, that you love?" I asked gently.

"Yes."  His voice was calm now, but singsong.  "Love him, love him, love him."

So he was gay, and that was okay, I was fine with it.  But society wasn't.  Society had tricked him into thinking that he couldn't be who he was, and that he had to put up with the first bastard who showed him affection.  "George, you can do better," I said, feeling tears well up in my eyes.  "Look at what he's done to you--he hurts you!"

"No he doesn't," said George quickly.

"So did you give yourself these bruises?"

"No..."

"Then he's hurting you."

"I knew you were going to say this," George wailed, and, shocked at his serious lack of reasonability, I tried to touch him, but he jerked away.  "I knew you were going to try and take away the only person that loves me!"

"He doesn't love you if he's hurting you!"

"No!" he cried.  "He loves me, he loves me!"

 Letting out a final, anguished moan, he threw himself into my arms and sobbed.  Distraught, I leaned him back against a bench underneath the window to examine his injuries.  I noticed a dark stain on his pants and pulled them down.

"Oh, Jesus."

I don't even like to talk about this--of course, I'd never seen the kinds of wounds a rape victim gets, let alone on my twin brother.  Down there, he was just drenched in blood.  There were horrid scratches all along his inner thighs, as well as poorly healed--burns?  Just remembering this makes me sick.  It made me sick then, too--George was whimpering; in serious pain, and I didn't know what to do.  Not really thinking, I tried to get him down to Pomfrey's, but he started crying so hard that he threw up.  So I turned on a shower and stuck him under it, and this he appreciated.  He calmed down considerably under the hot water, but that meant the adrenaline was wearing off.  He started to get groggy, and I pulled off my clothes and got in there with him, helping to scrub the blood away.

After this I redressed, but I just threw a robe on him and then tucked him into bed.  Thank god it was Friday night, and there would be no school tomorrow.  I didn't sleep a wink, instead sitting next to him and stroking his damp hair.

He woke up at about nine the next morning and smiled blearily at me, quite obviously confused.

"Are you feeling better?" I asked.

He tried to sit up, then grimaced and touched his forehead.  "Ow--my head!  What happened?"

I hate myself for what I did next.  "Give you a hint.  Stand up."

Obediently, George stood and promptly collapsed to his knees, letting out a loud cry of pain.  "Stupid prat, Fred!" he shouted, tears welling up in his eyes as he seized his bedpost and tried to climb to his feet again.

Feeling really low, I grabbed his elbow and helped him into bed again.  "I'm sorry," I said quietly.  "That was a horrible thing to do."

"Damn straight," snapped George, then caught his breath, his eyes widening.  I was shocked by his language, which was usually polite and clean, but his next accusatory words snapped me right back into reality:  "So you know?"

I nodded slowly; awkwardly.

"No," he hissed softly, then squinched up his eyes, beating softly on his head--he must've been trying to remember what he had said.  Finally he glanced up, looking pale.  "Oh no.  I--I really lost it last night, didn't I?  Well, whatever I said wasn't true.  I was..." he licked his lips and quite obviously began racking his mind for an excuse.  "I was drunk," he said finally, tipping his head up with dignity.  "And that's the honest to god truth, Fred, I was drinking last night."

"Drinking with your boyfriend?" I prodded, and George frowned.

"I know it looked bad," he said, spreading his hands, palm out.  "But it wasn't--I mean, this guy--I love him, and he loves me back.  He just got a little violent last night.  It's no one's fault."

Even though he was awake, he was just as unreasonable.  That realization deeply troubled me.  If he couldn't see the situation he was in when he was well rested and coherent, how would he ever get out of it?  "George," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, then stopped him as he opened his mouth.  "No, just hear me out, okay?  You are in an abusive relationship.  This boyfriend of yours assaulted you.  Check the bruises, if you don't believe me.  I've been watching you for some time now, and you've had these injuries for the longest time.  How long has this been going on?"  He didn't answer, so I continued, shakily.  "C'mon.  You're too smart for this.  Just break up with him.  God knows you can do better, and it's only a matter of time before he kills you."

"Or before I kill myself."

Having been braced for an argument, I paused, glancing at him.  He met my gaze, eyes brimming with tears.

"You don't know what it's like, Fred.  You don't know how it is, being gay.  I watch you and Angelina--kissing, having fun, flirting.  And I long for affection like that.  But I can't get it, because when you're like me, you aren't allowed to go around and ask people out."  He smiled without humor.  "I'd get beat up.  It was pure luck that my boyfriend came to me, and now that I've got him, I'm not letting go--I don't care what you say.  He can screw me up a goddam wall if he wants."

"That's the kind of attitude that makes you a victim," I said, my voice rising.

"You see the world through rose-colored glasses," he told me coldly, with audacity surprising to see, since he usually looked up to me as the older brother and respected that.  "Don't talk about things that you don't understand, Fred.  Especially regarding sexualities.  You're as straight as a pin, so you have no room to talk."

Instead of getting angry, I was becoming more and more distressed.  "I'm not trying to hurt you!  I'm trying to save you from--"

He flared up.  "From what?  From the only person who loves me?  Oh, thanks a heap!"

"George, he raped you."

"Another subject you know nothing about," he said stiffly.  "I'm not some damsel in some melodramatic movie.  I can deal.  And besides, rape is totally different from rough sex."

I had a feeling that if I watched them indulge in sexual activity, I'd see a lot of screaming on George's part and beating on his boyfriend's, but I had enough sense not to say so.  "This is how he controls you," I said urgently.  "Makes you think that he's the best you can get--but it's not true.  You're attractive and sweet and intelligent...I'm sure I can find plenty of dates for you, even."

Finally he smiled, albeit hesitantly, but nevertheless I felt like crying with relief.  I could see my twin again--the lovable, happy brother that I knew so well.  "Thanks, but I'll be okay, Fred," he said in a small voice.  "He's not unreasonable.  I'm sure he'll listen if I talk to him about this."

I seriously doubted it, but I forced a smile and nodded with difficulty.

After that, I began to search for any clues as to who his lover was--came up empty.  George had this uncanny knack for catching me when I was following him, and somehow he could lose me in the crowds after class--which was really saying something, because I was really determined to tail him and didn't give up easily.  But he promised to meet me in the common room every night at eight, though he often went back out for dates.  I forced him to let me check him for bruises during the moments we had together, and, startlingly, he did had fewer contusions...I suspected that he was healing them himself.  And he definitely seemed happier--but almost falsely so.

As he chatted on happily with Lee after a Quidditch practice, the Slytherin team wandered onto the field.  He turned and I distinctly saw him wink at someone--but I didn't catch who.

Great, so it was a Slytherin?  That figured.

"Ready to go?" George called to me, and I hesitated.

"Not yet," I said, then pretended to be searching my bag for something, while carefully watching him.  Lee left, and George sat down, watching the Slytherins practice.  Shortly after, that Draco Malfoy was knocked off his broom by a bludger, and the captain, Malcolm Montague, sighed and called practice to a time out.  He pulled out his wand with his left hand and performed a messy healing charm on Malfoy's wounded arm--the same kind of shoddy repair job that I'd seen on George the night he stumbled into the common room.  Everything fell into place, and I felt a rush of fury sweep through me.

Slowly, I stood up and marched over to the circle.  Montague glanced up, looking blank.  "Uh, George?"

"Nope," I said, then swung back a fist and punched him hard.

"Fred!" George shrieked distantly, jumping to his feet.

"The hell--?" Montague said shrilly before dropping to dodge my next blow.  I'd had the element of surprise, but he was certainly bigger than me, and he seized my foot and yanked sharply up.  The next moment I was flat on my back with Vincent Crabbe and Miles Bletchley forcefully restraining me.  Livid, Montague fingered his injured jaw, then grabbed Gregory Goyle's club and started to swing it at my face.  He probably would've broken my nose if George hadn't seized his arm.  Montague tried to throw him off, but George held on, shouting at him.

"Stop!  Stop it, Malcolm, please!"

Frantically trying to cause a diversion, George grabbed the front of his robes and hauled him sharply forward, making eye contact with him.  Montague, breathing hard through his nose, abruptly dropped the club.  He tangled his hand in George's hair and dragged him into a fierce, probing kiss.  Eventually he seemed to calm, and he broke away, though he kept one arm around ferociously tight around George's waist.

"Ugly bastard," I snapped at him before he could say anything.  "If I catch your filthy hands on him again I'll chew them off!!"

"Fred," George pleaded, clearly torn between mortification and fury.

"Don't like it, do you, Weasley?" asked Montague tauntingly.  "Don't like me touching your brother?"  And I should've said something, but I couldn't think of a decent comeback.  Encouraged by my silence, he ran his fingers sensually up George's leg, and involuntarily, I tensed.  "Don't like that, huh."  He winked and turned to his teammates.  "Practice is over; I have more interesting things to do."  And he led George back into the castle, pinching him pointedly as they went.  I made a less than polite gesture at his back and strode in the opposite direction.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Nightfall came and found me sitting near the fire in the common room.  By now everyone had heard of the fight, and people kept on stopping by to assure me that they were on my side.  One daring kid had even gone so far as to call George a whore, but, too dispirited to care, I just shrugged.  It got quite tiring, so I relocated from the library, which decreased the amount of comments, but sent me into an even more tumultuous state of mind.  Eight o' clock came and George didn't return, as was the usual plan.  Nine came and passed, then ten, eleven, and twelve.  At one, a girl burst into the common room.

"Fred Weasley, Fred Weasley!  Your brother--on the stairs, he's sick--"

I went immedietly, expecting him to be retching his guts out.  Instead, I found him standing in the middle of a flight of stairs, his eyes glazed over as he stared at the ceiling.

"George?" I said faintly, glad to see him on his feet, and even happier that he didn't look like he was going to yell at me for butting in with him and Montague--though I believe I had the right to, though in a less obtrusive way.  I cautiously stepped closer, then grabbed his forearms and shook him very gently.  "George."

Slowly he shrugged off his robes and then drew up his sleeve.  His entire arm up to the shoulder was bruised.

"Help," he whispered, tears glistening on his face.

It took us a long time to reach the common room, since we had to go so slowly, but finally we got there and we sat down on the couch.  George pressed his wet cheek against my neck, sobbing softly into my shoulder.

"I went w-with him, to his dormitories--and--and I swear I didn't w-want to go with him...I just made sure he was okay, t-then I was going to go and talk to you...but...but he was really mad...and when I told him I wanted to leave, he--got angrier--he threw me against the wall--I thought he was going to rape me--"

"Hasn't he done so before?"

"He's beaten me before--but never raped," he whimpered, his voice ridden with anguish.  "I got away, just barely.  He--he was so drunk."

"I think it's about time you broke it off with him," I said, expecting argument.

To my surprise, he hastily nodded.  "You're right."  Then he looked at me solemnly, gathering himself up a bit more.  "You've been right.  Tomorrow, I'm--I'm breaking up with him.  This shouldn't have gone as far as it did."  He kissed me on the cheek.  I felt his tears.  "Thank you for being there for me," he added in a whisper, squeezing my hands tightly.  "I love you, Fred."

Those were his last words to me.  He was silent the next morning, and in the afternoon, he went to find Montague.

Later that night, I waited for him to meet me in the common room at eight and tell me how things had gone.  This time he never came.  I sat there until seven o' clock, when everyone was getting up.  Then Professor McGonagall entered through the portrait hole and gently told me that my twin was dead.

From what Montague had disclosed, McGonagall could only assume that George had tried to break up with him, and Montague had lost his temper and raped him.  Then, not wanting George to tell anyone, he took him outside and drowned him in the lake--hoping the squid would destroy the evidence, perhaps.  But Hagrid got there first.

Of course I cried then, but when I reflect, the anger overcomes my sadness.  George was right.  This never should've gone so far.  It was the lack of support--or even acknowledgement--from society about homosexuality that made George an outcast; that made him so desperate for love that he let himself fall in deep with the person who battered him, verbally abused him, and ultimately took his life.

Students at Hogwarts heard this story as "George Weasley was raped."  They mourned for that reason.  But my siblings and I saw this underlying message sitting beneath the surface of that too-simple headline: "Our brother dug his own grave because he couldn't find tenderness in anything else."  And we were disgusted that his death became completely Montague's fault--well, certainly, he was to blame.  But what about the public?  Wasn't it their fault, at least partly?  They could print pointless stories about the pros and cons of gillyweed diets, but they couldn't reach out to a frightened teenage boy--whose death could've been prevented if people other than his family members had given the slightest indication that they care.

The world doesn't care.

The word "gay" is used carelessly.  It has become a synonym for "stupid."  People don't address homosexuality, they say, "oh, that is so gay" and "what a gay idea!"  If anything, that makes people like George even more ashamed--it makes them even more vulnerable, and willing to accept anyone who will kiss them and make them feel special.

I wonder what would've happened if he'd found a decent clique of friends to hang with.  I'll bet I wouldn't have been robbed of his life.  I'd instead be helping him prepare for dates, instead of putting flowers on his grave.

He had come out to me, Ron, and Ginny, but mum and the others hadn't known that he was gay.  Mum took it very calmly--I believe she must've made the connection when she heard that he'd been attacked by another man.  Dad, Bill, and Charlie just nodded.  Surprisingly, Percy had the strongest reaction.  He actually took a break from the Ministry to come home, and he raged on tearfully for nearly an hour, saying things like, "This is precisely the kind of thing that needs to be addressed" and "if I'd known, I could've helped him and he never would've died."  Then he had a major breakdown in front of us and wouldn't be consoled for an entire week, though he did remain at home.

I would often hear Ginny start to cry from the bathroom.  The sight of George's unused toothbrush sent her into throes of misery.  Ron had a similar problem.  He became overcome with grief as soon as he sat down at the table and found George's place empty, and for that reason, he ate very little.  Everyone would gaze at me with a mixture of jealousy and distress, wondering how I was coping so well.

But as I said, I couldn't be sad because I was so angry.  I couldn't mourn because I couldn't accept it.

I think that everyone eventually understood this, and they would work little hints into their conversations so as to desensitize me from the subject.  For example, dad would speak loudly from another room about funeral arrangements, and Ginny would hang up pictures of him where everyone could see them.  This didn't help me.  I sunk deeper into a depression and began to clam up.  I sat in my room all day and shouted the words to loud songs, or else I poured out my anguish through violent, swearword-ridden stories.

One night as I scribbled angry poetry on my schoolwork, mum came in and silently handed me a poster.  It said, "P.R.O.W.D."

"Proud?" I read, and she nodded, her eyes red but full of dignity.

"P.R.O.W.D.," she said, tilting her head up.  "Parents remonstrating outcast wizard deaths."

And so she kicked off the whole "P.R.O.W.D." campaign with that poster, made on a whim but starting something fresh and wonderful.  Percy and dad copied them and hung them around the Ministry, and I put a notice in the Daily Prophet.  Ginny and Ron spread the news around Hogwarts, and Bill and Charlie did likewise in their respective countries.  When I returned to school, two weeks later than Ron and Ginny had, I received a tremendous wave of support.  People were eager to cheer me up when I was down, and I noticed hundreds of white ribbons tied to school bags, pinned to shirts--Ginny later told me that they were signs of respect.

Mum began advertising a talk about the meaning of P.R.O.W.D., and Professor McGonagall had suggested that we use the lake as the meeting place--the scene of the crime.  So that's where I stood...where my brother had breathed his last.  It was such an emotional time for all of us...I know my throat was knotted.  The turnout was absolutely amazing.   Almost every student in Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor showed up, and even a knot of Slytherins attended.  Then there were many workers at the Ministry, thus there were journalists--and though I wondered about this, mum told me firmly that it was good; that we were now receiving worldwide coverage in our fight for support.

They pushed me to the stand without my having prepared for the talk, and, though I'd never been afraid of public speaking, froze on the spot.  I mean, who wouldn't?  Staring in front of the audience and journalists who could make or break a campaign that meant more to me than anything.

Finally Ginny stood up and handed me what I thought were notes, but when I looked down, I found that she had shoved photographs in my hands.

Suddenly the words came from nowhere.

"Society killed my brother."

I heard a murmur of voices, then it died away.

"I don't care what the records say.  It wasn't just Montague.  It was our system, our expectations--that's what killed him.  I'll always remember what he said to me...and I quote: 'I long for affection like that.  But I can't get it, because when you're like me, you aren't allowed to go around and ask people out.  It was pure luck that my boyfriend came to me, and now that I've got him, I'm not letting go.'"  I was crumpling the picture, and I smoothed it out, feeling hot tears in my eyes again.  It took a tremendous amount of effort to look up.  "And he said that the morning after he'd come to me, bleeding...and then when I tried to get him help, he told me that I was taking away the one person that loved him."

Unconsciously, I smiled sourly.

"Sure, Montague loved him, all right.  He just beat him and raped him."

Ron let out a loud, disgusted noise.  He wasn't the only one.  Most of the Hogwarts students were now exchanging horror-struck glances--as if they were hearing the news for the first time.  Maybe they were only letting it hit them for the first time.  There was a difference.

In the lull, I looked at the picture again, and it made me feel weak--but my voice was stronger.  "I know that if he'd had a support group, he wouldn't have stayed with Montague until it killed him.  George was one of those people who hide their insecurities behind cheerful expressions and jokes and hope that no one will notice.  But inside, he suffered.  His low self-esteem ate him up from inside.  Now, because of the violent crime that took his life, I can't honor his memory in peace.  Because now I can't see my brother--not through the bruises and the hatred.  The mention of his name should make me smile and think about happy times, when sexualities weren't important--but now when I think about him, I can only imagine a scared teenager who wanted nothing more than to be accepted."

I looked down.  Bad move.  The next moment I was shouting.

"I'm standing where he died!  Where eighteen years of care and schooling and painstaking raising became a goddam waste--as of now, at least.  But his death doesn't have to be a waste.  If I can get just one person to change their mind about homosexuality...if I can get just one person to decide that being gay isn't a crime--then his death will have had meaning.  Then George Weasley's life will not have been in vain."  Then, feeling numb, I added something so softly that few people heard.  "Then I can remember him as he was--my intelligent, beautiful, perfect twin brother."

For what seemed like hours, it was silent.  Then Professor McGonagall stood up, clapping loudly.  And suddenly an explosion of applause reached my ears, then cheering and whistling--and waves of supporters poured down upon me, open and willing to help.  That's when I had a flash of memory, of George--but it wasn't the battered, screaming image that so often haunted my dreams.

It was the real George--the smiling, carefree teenager, gazing at the stars.

He loved the stars.  And he was with them now.

End...

But it's not the end.  I don't think so, anyway.  I can't think of this as the end because, while things are going to be all right in my little fanfic, the real world still doesn't care.  There are still George Weasleys that need reaching out to.  I guess this is a really pessimistic story, in regard to humanity.  In my mind, there are far too few people who care.

Prove me wrong.