Okeydokey, here is chapter 9! Thanks again for all your reviews-I really appreciate them! Enjoy!
Slate
"How did you get here?" Slate barked, immediately turning toward the window and peering out the curtain.
"I…apparated, I suppose," George said hesitantly, watching Slate.
"Ah, we can't do that. We'll have to walk."
"Where? Why?"
"All in good time," Slate turned, pulling his hood over his head. It had started to rain.
"Can I tell anyone about this?"
"No." Slate's answer was so loud and sudden that George jumped. Thunder cracked overhead and lightning lit Slate's face as he stepped closer to George.
"If anyone else knows about this, they'll be exposed to magic they've never seen. And this sort of magic…it'll drive a wizard mad. Is that what you want?"
Slate's throaty voice sent chills down George's spine.
"No," George said quietly. He turned to the staircase where a brown sweatshirt lay. He tugged it over his head silently and picked up his wand. He paused before joining Slate.
"Are you sure you can do this?" He asked.
Slate's expression was stone-like.
"We have to move now."
George nodded, biting his lip. The voice in his head was still screaming.
I don't care, George said to the voice. I'm tired of thinking. I just want to go. Just let me go. I'm so, so tired of it all. Any hope of finding Fred again…I'm not the same without him. I'm not my own person without him. Everything was the two of us. This man is giving me a chance to become me again, don't you understand?
The voice still protested.
The door swung open slowly. The streets of Hogsmeade were deserted; rain beat down violently, and every few seconds the sky was lit by streaks of lightning. George glanced to his side; all he could see of Slate was the red scar, running like a tear down his face in the rain. George was painfully reminded of his own scars and tugged down the sleeve of his old sweatshirt.
"Did you hear something?" Slate asked suddenly.
"What? No, I…" George paused. Listened. "I don't hear anything."
"We just don't want people catching on," Slate explained. "I've said before, this is some extraordinary magic that you'll be seeing. Bringing someone back from the dead…" George shivered at the word and tugged at his sleeve again.
"And you never know what sorts of people are out there—people who would use this magic for evil."
George said nothing. He couldn't bring himself to speak. His voice was caught in his throat; what would his family think? When would they see that he was missing? Had Percy forgiven him for earlier? Had his mother stopped crying since that afternoon?
Fear tied George's stomach into knots. Then he thought of the mirror. He thought of Fred standing there, reaching out for him. Those identical eyes. That identical grin. He thought of Fred falling, backwards through the mirror. The terror in his eyes, the way that his grin quickly turned into a scream. George wondered if that was how Fred looked when he died. His parents said he had been smiling, but…
"Oi!" Slate hissed. George realized that he was now several paces behind Slate, who was gesturing madly. George hurried through the puddles that were now ankle-deep. They were now just outside the gates of the small village.
"We'll apparate here. Take my arm."
George paused.
"George! What are you waiting for?"
"I just…I really want him back, okay? I really want him back."
Slate paused, his arm still in the air.
"I told you," He growled lowly, "just stick with me. The next time you come to this shop, your brother could be standing right next to you."
George took a deep breath and grabbed onto Slate's arm.
Speed.
Sickness.
Dizziness.
And suddenly, there was no more rain. They stood in front of a large mansion. Ivy grew along the sides, a long cobblestone path leading to the grand front doors. The mansion stood in front of a cloudy night sky. Fog rolled through the front lawn.
Slate wordlessly began to walk up the path; George noticed he had a limp.
"What're you waiting for?" Slate barked over his shoulder. George took a deep breath and followed. Slate waved his wand and the door swung open.
"We're home," Slate called into the house.
"Who are you talking to?" George asked, pulling down his hood. He looked around. The house looked old. It creaked with every step George took; it rattled with every gust of wind that came through.
"You'll see. They're right over here." Slate shrugged off his robe and tossed it on the floor. The two began to walk down the long, wooden hallway. The hall was empty; there were no doors to other rooms, or framed pictures of witches and wizards. Just a blank corridor leading to an unknown room.
When the two rounded the corner, George was met with another wizard and one witch.
"Here we are," said Slate, and swiftly walked into the room.
"Is that him?" Asked one of the other wizards, nodding at George. George stood at the doorway, shivering from the cold rain.
"Don't scare him, Dex," The witch grinned. She had long, curly brown hair and sharp blue eyes. She looked about George's age. "He only just got here. Come in, have a seat."
George walked into the room and tried to cover his shallow breathing, embarrassed. He didn't want to be afraid. Fred wouldn't have been this afraid.
"Don't be scared, sweetheart," The witch whispered. "I'm Romera. I'll help you feel at home here." She smiled again. Her teeth were pearl white.
"I told him we could help him bring back his twin," Slate said, glancing around the room.
"We can't do it without his help, now, can we?" The wizard named Dex eyed Slate. Slate grinned.
"Why do you think I brought him here?"
"Listen," George spoke, finally finding his voice. "I'll do what I can. But…I've never been that good with magic. I mean, I'll do anything possible. I'll do anything at all. But I don't know this kind of magic." He looked around the room, expecting disappointing looks and the wizards shaking their heads.
To his surprise, the three of them laughed.
"We don't need you to do the magic, George," Slate grinned. His eyes crinkled; the scar appeared redder than ever. "We need something powerful enough to perform the magic. A wand."
"Well…I'm afraid I haven't got it," George said nervously, pulling out his wand. "This wand is just…normal. It's the same as F—as my brother's." George clutched the wand so tightly that his knuckles turned bright white. "If that's what you mean, then I suppose you can have this one…"
"Not that wand, boy!" Howled another wizard that George hadn't noticed. He sat near the corner of the room by the fireplace. He had wavy black hair and jet black eyes. His shoulders were crooked and he was missing some teeth; his face was covered in long, jagged marks. He noticed George staring at him and grimaced.
"You're not the only one injured in the battle, kid. I've got some scars to show as well."
George hurriedly put his wand back in his pocket, relieved that he didn't have to give it up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Romera looking at him from under the dark swoop of hair that covered her eyes.
"What he means is," Slate began, "we need a wand much more powerful than that. Perhaps you've heard of it."
George remained silent. His chest felt much too tight.
"It's called the Elder Wand," Slate said, studying George's face. "Ever heard of it?"
George hesitated. "In…in storybooks I have. The Tale of Three Brothers. Is that what you mean?"
"Read that one a lot, have you? Remember what it's about?"
George looked down, ashamed with himself for allowing tears to sting his eyes. Of course he remembered reading the story. His mother read it to him and Fred when they were little. Before they went to sleep, the twins would be jumping on their beds, squealing. Their mother came in clutching the book, and the boys would stop and settle down. Or at least, George would. Fred would bounce for a few more moments before plopping down next to George. They would get under the blankets while Molly perched on the edge of the bed and began to read.
While she was reading, George would kick Fred under the covers, who would laugh and kick back. Molly scolded them, but she smiled. Proud that her two little boys were best friends. Wondering how she ever got so lucky to have them. When she finished the story, she kissed them both on the foreheads and turned off the lights. Fred and George would stay up, talking quietly, making jokes and laughing.
Of course George remembered the story.
"I know it," George said quietly. Slate nodded.
"It's the most powerful wand in the world," He explained. "Able to perform any sort of magic; or at least, it's what we believe. We've never seen it. Have you, George? Ever seen the Elder Wand?"
George shook his head. "I didn't even know that it truly existed."
"Of course. Well, then I suppose you don't know who has it."
George shook his head again.
"We believe you know the kid," The wizard across the room laughed to himself. Slate shot him a look from across the room.
"Who? Who is it?" George asked, although he had a sneaking suspicion. He remembered a time shortly after fourth year had ended. They had walked out of Cedric's funeral solemnly. After a few hours, Fred finally found the strength to speak.
"It all comes down to Harry, doesn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"It's just…seeing You-Know-Who and all…and last year, with the Chamber of Secrets…"
"And the year before, the Sorceror's Stone…"
"Right. It just all comes down to Harry, doesn't it?"
For the following years, Fred and George used to joke; whenever something beyond their imaginations was happening, it all came down to one person.
"Harry Potter."
George smiled slightly.
Of course. Harry Potter.
