I hope the author of Harry Potter, JK Rowlings, never stumbles upon this, because I'm sure she'd sue me just for being so mean. By this, I of course mean this fictional story using fictional characters that I do not own and would not dream of trying to turn a profit with.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE SQUIB
Regret.
George lay very still on the floor, trying not to breath, praying Voldemort would think him dead; perhaps wishing to fool himself as well. He screamed inwardly for Fred, hoping for a snippet of his voice again- hoping Fred would retract his plea- but heard only Voldemort, commanding him to get up. It was odd, George thought foggily, how Fred's voice could sound so different from Fred's voice.
It could not be true.
How could it be true?
It was not possible.
How could it be? How could it possibly be that Charlie-
No.
No!
How could what be?
As Voldemort tried to lift him off the floor, the world spun so relentlessly that he could not recognize his own hand in front of his face. He remembered not the question to his answer. But he knew it wasn't. It couldn't. It was impossible, everything, as the hand he held before him was surely impossible, too. George hiccupped and felt- didn't feel- all the emotion bleed out of him. Though his heart was beating too fast, he felt nothing.
Except cold.
His brain tried to find pleasant thoughts but could not seem to grasp even one. Anything and everything pleasant seemed so far away- instead every not-so-funny prank Fred and him had ever pulled came flooding over him with gnawing remorse. He remembered the time they'd bewitched Percy's shoes, on the day he was edgy and flustered by his upcoming Apparation exam. He remembered how they had laughed hysterically when Percy fell all the way down two flights of stairs and out the door to fail his test.
George thought of the time Bill had come home from Egypt terribly ill with some exotic flu, and Fred and he- it had seemed so funny at the time. Why on earth had it seemed so funny?- had replaced his prescribed potion with sleeping draught, and Bill had nearly died in his sleep.
He thought of the time he and his twin had decided to try out an old Muggle trick on Charlie; after he came home from a pub on his birthday and passed out on the sofa, they'd put his hand in a bowl of warm water-
George snorted a tiny bit of laughter, upsetting the dust on the stone floor. Okay, maybe that had been a little funny-
"Must I use every single Unforgivable Curse on you, you stubborn boy?" Voldemort was persisting.
Surely Voldemort hadn't really... surely somehow Charlie was still...
That rotten candy. It had seemed like such a good idea. The Weasley twins were going to be rich! Imagine on Halloween, to answer the door as host and scare the shit out of your guests, blood gushing out of nearly everywhere in your face! Imagine slipping it into the candy dish of someone at the office you don't particularly care for! Fred and George thought sure they would sell like hotcakes. If only they had thought about their test subject. If only they'd thought it through before offering it to their brother-
He would have found another way... he remembered Fred telling him. He knew Fred was right, but it gave no comfort.
George yelped in pain as Voldemort took him by the hair and yanked him to his feet.
"Ah, I had a feeling you'd awoke," he sneered, "Naptime is over, boy. I've got a few more surprises for you. The fun has only begun!"
"Please. Just let me lay here..." George moaned. He made a vain attempt to relieve his scalp from Voldemort's grasp. Fred's hands were dry and cold.
"Now don't start crying again yet, Georgie. You'll have plenty to cry about in a moment, and even more to cry about in a couple of minutes." Voldemort tossed him away.
He landed on the floor near Charlie's body. He recoiled from it, feeling horribly nauseous, but could not take his eyes away. Charlie was translucently pale. His cheeks and lips were purple, his eyes not all the way shut. George could see them under the eyelashes, hazel and unseeing. He shook his head slowly and could not even blink. Surely this was all a nightmare, or one of their horrible jokes. Surely this could not be. How could his big brother-?
"Are you ready, Georgie?"
"Please stop this," said George hollowly, turning pleading eyes on the merciless face of his twin.
"Good. Grotesca! Bring in the boy!" Voldemort called to the single black door.
Almost immediately it swung open and Madam Malica came marching in, dragging a whining, trembling Quentin by the ear. He had a sizeable bump on his head. She planted him next to Voldemort and stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes dancing excitedly.
"Master," she said, nodding at Quentin.
"Where is my idiotic apprentice?" said Voldemort shortly.
Her smile fell. "Sir?"
"Your thick son, Madam!"
"I- I'm not sure-"
"Out."
Madam Malica hesitated, looking disappointed, and stalked out of the room.
"George?" asked Quentin timidly of Voldemort.
"Oh, no, my little man," he chuckled, putting his arm around the boy and jerking him close. Quentin crinkled his nose.
The smell of death.
"George and I played a funny joke on your cousin Charlie. See him over there?"
Quentin saw and let out a small cry.
"Quentin, meet your cousin Charlie. Charlie, meet- well, I doubt it really matters to him," Voldemort howled with laughter, "Charlie used to take care of dragons. Wasn't that brave of him, Quents?"
Quentin nodded slowly. His buggy blue eyes were huge and frightened, his enormous ice-cube shaped teeth peeking dimly out of his slightly open mouth. He looked terribly young, gazing up at Voldemort, who was more than a head taller than he in Fred's body.
"I don't like heroes, Quentin. I don't like bravery," Voldemort shook Fred's head, "Do you know what else I don't like?"
Quentin began to whimper, trying to squirm away. Voldemort embraced him tightly.
"You don't know? How about you, Georgie? Any ideas?"
"Don't do this," George pleaded, "he's only a little boy."
Voldemort threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Ah, Georgie, my jewel, haven't you noticed? We are all just little boys!"
"Don't do this!"
"What I don't like, Quentin," Voldemort said, squeezing the boy close to him, "Are little boys who fail to serve their purpose."
Quentin burst into tears, moaning for his father.
"Where is your daddy, little man? I don't think he's here, is he?"
Quentin shook his head.
"Stop it!"
"Stop carrying on now George, let me finish. That's right, Quentin, he's not here. Let me tell you where he is. He went to get help, because he's a spineless, pathetic old man. I don't like that, my boy, I don't like it when people try to get me in trouble. Nobody likes to get in trouble, do they, Quentin?"
"N-no."
"Your father is trying to get me in trouble. Do you know what that means, Quentin?"
Quentin sniffled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Master, sir."
"Please don't do this!"
"That means you're in trouble, boy."
George did not have time to look away.
In a flash of green light, Quentin's life was over. He fell limp in Fred's arms.
George never dreamed Fred could look so repulsive, or was capable of having such a grotesque smile on his face- George might have been sick again, might have fainted dead away, might have cried out- if it hadn't been for one thing...
He could have sworn- in his shock he was probably only imagining things- but he could have sworn that out of the corner of his eye he saw Charlie flinch as Quentin was dying. He could have sworn he saw Charlie squint-perhaps grimace-as the green light flashed.
"Now that we've gotten that out of the way," said Voldemort, heaving Quentin's body aside, "It's time for the big finale! And then poor Fred will escape my evil clutches, and tell the world how nasty old Voldemort murdered his entire family. How sorry everyone will feel for him! How easy it will be to take over."
Voldemort cackled himself out of the room, shutting the door behind him. "Don't go anywhere now, Georgie. I'll be right back. Promise."
George's eyes darted about in search of a sharp object- a blunt object- anything- Not that he really thought he was capable of killing his brother. Of course he wasn't. He couldn't. He felt ever sicker, eternally sicker, never dreaming he could look upon his twin and feel such anger and disgust. He saw nothing in which to use as a weapon. The room was unfurnished save the bed. There was not so much as a fire poker, dustpan, or candlestick. He could not believe what he was thinking of doing. He looked at Quentin's dead body, sprawled and twisted like a discarded toy upon the floor. He looked at Charlie, purple and white, his arms spread wide as if he were bargaining with the heavens- he heard Fred's voice, just a shadow now in his mind, begging for death-
George's breath stuck in his throat as something caught his eye.
Charlie's wand was lying under the bed, just inches from his fingertips.
His brain began to work feverously. He knew no useful spells, he'd have to transfigure the wand into something- but what? In this state he hardly remembered how to change a match into a sewing needle. Eyeing the single black door, he dove over Charlie's body, holding his breath, trying not to look at or think about it, and took the wand into his hands.
A match into a sewing needle...
George blurted the spell. Nothing. He beat the wand over his leg, cussing and threatening it, succeeding only in making blue sparks fizzle briefly at one end.
"Come on you piece of shit!" He whispered, trying the spell once more.
Like that, suddenly he was holding an enormous sewing needle. With one last swipe he was able to shrink it down a bit for concealment, so that it was roughly the length of his hand, but fat and thick and sharp. So he had something now.
He wished that he didn't.
Not hesitating to marvel at his handiwork, he shoved the eye-end into his sock and managed to pull his pant leg over it just as the black door swung open once more.
