DISCLAIMER: Guess what? I'm J.K. Rowlings, everyone. I wrote Harry Potter. Yup, that's right, all four of them. Aren't I a wonderful author? Ah hahahahahaahahah! Only joking. Had you going for a second, didn't I? You really thought I was her, didn't you? You fools! I'm Rose Rovente, who owns NOT A DAMN THING!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ON WORRIES AND WEREWOLVES

The ward on the Burrow had been old, and for lack of a better word, senile. It should have immediately recognized Fred as a family member and given way, but didn't. And so after many failed spells Fred had reared back and kicked the door open the hard way. George had been impressed and laughed, and that laugh had made Fred terribly disoriented. The realization that he really was not ever going to see his brother again hit him very hard and very suddenly. He stumbled backward and landed hard on an overturned bucket, breathing only with great effort, turning this way and that with great confusion, feeling the world slip out from underneath him.

"Fred?" said George in a thin voice.

"Give me a sec, George."

"What's the matter?"

"I- I just- you wouldn't understand, just let me sit a second and then we'll go in, alright?"

"Okay," George agreed, somewhat reluctantly, then, "You're thirsty. You want water."

Suddenly there was a wooden porch under Fred's shoes again, and his head no longer spun. He studied the George, who looked back at him worriedly. "George, how do you know 'thirsty' but you don't know 'hungry?'"

"You want some water," George informed him, as if that were any sort of answer.

And yes, Fred's throat had been very dry.

Then he was looking around at the place he'd grown up, wheezing from all the dust, feeling the delicate tickle of cobwebs on his arms. Their family portrait had not been removed from the wall in the parlor, and he and George, just fourteen years old, were smiling and waving at him. The George in the picture gave the Fred in the picture bunny ears, and they playfully shoved each other right off the frame, while their Mum gave them her infamous evil eye. Charlie drug them back into view by their shirt collars and smirked as they tried to escape his headlocks.

There had been boxes of stuff everywhere, which three weeks later Fred was still struggling put away. It looked as if his family hadn't taken a thing with them. As if to taunt, George's things had been waiting in a dented hamper near the front door for him to trip over; fake wands and candy, a spent dung bomb entangled in sweater emblazoned with a huge "G." Fred smiled bitterly when the scene played out in his head: Charlie must have been packing George's things, and in some sort of mournful frustration had probably kicked the hamper and walked away from it forever.

"Do these things belong to the boy you were talking to outside?" George had asked gently, as if nervous about disturbing his brother.

"Yes," Fred had told him simply. He'd wanted to avoid explaining more than was necessary.

"That's him in that picture," George observed, "Not me. But we look alike."

"Yes you do."

"Don't look sad. He didn't look sad. He looked glad to see you."

Fred's breath caught in his throat. "You saw him?"

"For just a second. When you laid down in the dirt, he was above you, like the things in the sky. Fogs."

"Clouds."

"Clouds. Then he sort of… got windy."

Got windy. Fred was now sitting in the parlor, sucking all the unpleasant flavor out of quill when he should have been using it to write out a grocery list. He admitted light-heartedly to himself that, going always from one extreme to another, after years of avoiding any deep thought, he was now seeming to get lost in it. It was alright, he supposed, because he could think of his twin now without overwhelming confusion and pain. But he still couldn't bring himself to go upstairs. To see he and George's room again, packed away as it might be… it would be too much. Just like visiting their joke shop would be far too much.

"Oh no!"

Fred knew, and was already out of his chair and running toward the kitchen when his brother screamed.

"George!" Fred cried. A pan of boiling noodles fell with a clang to the floor as a startled George jumped back from the stove. "For Merlin's sake!"

"The water was going to bubble out the top, Fred," said George timidly.

"You pick up a pot by its handle, George! You see this?" Fred demanded, pointing angrily at the burner. "I don't want you anywhere near it! You can't touch this part of the stove. It'll hurt you!"

"I'm sorry." George's eyes grew moist and he hung his head.

"Don't get upset. I'm sorry I yelled at you, alright? I just don't want you to burn yourself." Fred switched off the stove and used his wand to clean up the mess on the floor. "So much for our dinner. I'll conjure us some sandwiches. Don't know why I'm always trying to manually cook in the first place. Nothing but a big pain-" Fred stopped, realizing that not only was he upsetting George, but starting to sound like his mother. "-what kind of sandwich do you want, George? You want peanut butter and jelly? You liked the peanut butter and jelly."

"Ham and Swiss."

Fred looked queerly at his brother. He couldn't help but wonder how George did not know simple things like don't-put-your-hand-on-a red-hot-stove, but knew of food that Fred was quite sure he'd never fed him. It was also strange that that was Fred's favorite, and something his first George had hated.

"Ham and Swiss it is," Fred said.

"Fred," George said a minute later with his mouth full.

"Swallow first. I don't want you to… choke…" something dark and dangerous crept up on Fred; something he couldn't explain. He pushed it away by charging forward with, "What were you saying?"

George took a moment to chew. "You reckon I could do magic?"

"Well," said Fred thoughtfully, removing his apron, "I don't see why not." He handed George his wand. "Give it a wave. See what it does."

George swung it hilariously around like a violent marching band conductor, and sure enough, red and gold sparks flew out the end.

"Weird," said Fred under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing. Say lumos."

"Lumos!"

The wand lit up.

"Congratulations! You're a wizard."

"I'm a wizard!" George exclaimed.

* * * * * *

For the next few weeks Charlie became rather moody and grew aggravated easily. He hovered over Bill, worried and nagged if he thought his brother looked too tired or made any expression but a smile, and the result was that they bickered and argued frequently.

Sean befriended Scott and Ian, becoming their shadow, following them whenever and wherever they would allow him. Remus was glad; he didn't know how much more of Sean's disapproval and taunting and cynicism he cared to put up with.

Leaving was out of the question, because after three weeks, Charlie had still not successfully performed the Avada Kedavra curse.

The next Daily Prophet was finally distributed and a small article ran between a slew of advertisements; a biased (and not in Percy's favor) rumor that he had abandoned his position. Only his secretary was available for comment, saying, "he's been on holiday. He deserves a rest." Remus was sipping strong coffee and skimming through this article, Bill and Sean on his left and right, playing an uninspired game of chess. They were all listening to Charlie growl in frustration as he attempted to kill a cockroach.

His aim was good, at least. He'd finally managed to kill a flea as it hopped in and out of sight, sensing impending doom. The cockroach was obviously too big and too much yet for Charlie. He slammed down his wand. "I give up! I can't do it!"

"Do you mind not shaking the table?" said one of Sean's chess pieces.

"Shut up, you," Charlie spat.

Remus patiently folded his paper and drew his brand new wand, which Junior Ollivander had been kind enough to replace free of charge. "Remember, Charlie, you can't just imagine the bug dead or dying. You've got to see it's little bug heart stopping. You've got to see his little bug brain shutting down. You've got to see the little bug life force draining out of-"

"I know. I see it, Remus, trust me, I see the goddamn bug dying-"

"Hell," Sean interjected, "It's really not that difficult."

"It's your move," said Bill.

"One sec." Sean stood and cleared his throat, tapping the table with his own brand new wand.

"Ho!" said Charlie, taking a step back, "I suppose the little boy is going to kill the bug dead right off without any-"

"Avada Kedavra!"

For a moment the whole house glowed green, and the poor little cockroach scuttled no more back and forth across the table. Sean sat and Bill took his bishop.

"-trouble." Charlie finished quietly. "How the fuck do you know that?"

"Learned it in school. Check."

"What school?"

Sean looked at him crazy. "Hogwarts, of course."

"Hog-?"

"-try it again, Charlie," said Remus, "You got the flea. Hold your wand like-"

"Forget it. New course of action." Charlie sat hard at the table.

"Calm down, Mr. Earthquake," whispered Bill's knight.

"Stop sulking, Charles."

"Well you give it a try, William, and see what a fine mood you're in. Why don't we switch? How about you kill Voldemort and I'll…"

Bill's facial expressions were uncanny. Charlie trailed off as Bill gave him a look that clearly stated, so loud it could have echoed off the walls, that Charlie was to apologize and shut his mouth immediately.

"I'm sorry," said Charlie humbly, shame reddening his cheeks.

"Try the curse again," was all Bill said. I'll be half dead by then and you know it, said his eyes.

"Check. I think it would be easier for him to curse something bigger, Remus. In class we started with locust, then frogs, pigeons, all the way up to pigs."

"Perhaps," said Remus thoughtfully, "You're right." He pulled up his sleeves and transfigured the salt and pepper shakers into two medium sized mice. "Alright, Charlie, you've got to remember that this is an evil curse. You can't perform it and just hope that the mouse dies. You've got to want it dead. Pretend it's done something horrible to you. Feel the anger welling in your chest. Scream at it beforehand if you have to. Pretend it's Voldemort."

Sean sniggered.

"Quiet please, Sean. Try it. See it's wretched little heart stopping. See it die, wish for it to die, but don't worry, when you get it and practice it enough, it will be become second nature. Don't worry about having to collect those thoughts in your head when you're face to face with him. Concentrate. You are dispensing death."

"Yeah, or you could just kill the bloody thing."

"Sean," said Remus edgily, "Quiet."

Charlie sighed and rose again. "Alright you fucking mouse. I hate you and I hate this curse, and I want desperately for you to die! Avada Kedavra!"

The mouse squeaked and ran over the chess bored. Bill caught it in his elbow just as it was about to escape.

"FUCK!" Charlie roared. He swung around swished his wand at the other mouse. "Avada Kedavra!" Everyone recoiled, violent green invading their closed eyelids, Bill nearly falling backward in his chair.

Charlie let out a whoop of triumph. "He's dead! The bastard mouse is dead… I feel bad now… poor little thing."

"It was only a salt shaker, Charlie," Remus patted him on the shoulder.

"Well done, Charlie."

"Checkmate." said Sean.

"Blast," Bill muttered, "Well I'm going to have a nap."

"We've only been awake a couple of hours," said Charlie.

Bill shrugged, got up and went into the bedroom.

Remus took a sewing kit from the pocket of his robes and set to work threading a needle. After a try or two he withdrew his reading spectacles and poked some more at that damned evasive hole, one eye shut, tongue stuck out slightly from the corner of his mouth.

Charlie changed the deceased mouse back into a salt container, now shattered, and dropped it in the garbage on his way to the icebox for a drink.

"Why do you darn your socks like a Muggle?" Sean asked Remus as he put away the chess pieces. "I know a mending spell, if you need one."

Remus couldn't help but laugh; sew his sock and laugh, blinking in disbelief. "It's a tragedy, surely! I can kill people magically, but never learnt to fix my socks."

"I hope you're being sarcastic."

Remus threw his head back in silent laughter. "I just like to keep busy, Sean. Gives me something to do."

"Remus, can we talk?" Charlie said out of nowhere, his beer halfway to his mouth. He wasn't looking at Sean or Remus, but at the closed door the Bill had just disappeared behind. His expression was dark and thoughtful.

The smile fell from Sean's face. He counted in his head: three…two… one…

"Sean, why don't you go down to the cafeteria and get a cauldron cake." Remus said, right on cue. He set his darning aside. "Here's a Sickle."

Sean gave him a dirty look, which of course Remus completely ignored. He also foiled Sean's plan to listen outside the door by saying, "and why don't you bring Charlie and I one as well."

When he was gone, Charlie said, blinking back tears, "I'm going to fuck this up. I know I am."

"You can't think like that."

"I just keep thinking about how my mother would feel. If I fuck this up, then three of her sons are dead, all in one day. And the more my brother deteriorates, the more nervous I get. And I just keep thinking why the hell is this all up to me…"

"I'm sure we're all frightened." said Remus evenly.

"And then I think, god, at least I'm not a werewolf," Charlie blurted, visibly shocked at himself but unable to stop the flow of words, "If I was a werewolf, I would have killed myself long ago. You're strong. I want to apologize for my ignorance. You're okay, Remus. Jesus, I'm sorry I'm acting like such a git…"

Remus smiled gently. "You haven't been sleeping well, have you? I'll fix you something. Knock you out for a good twelve hours. You'll feel much better."

"I'm not tired." Charlie insisted, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. "I don't want to sleep. Thank you for being so patient, Remus. I know you don't have to help us, and I'm sure you'd rather be anywhere but here. I- I hope you don't mind me saying this but… if it weren't for the thought that… you know, at least I can try and do something about my problems- I mean… unlike you… if it weren't for that I think I would be completely insane by now."

They were silent for a moment, then Remus said, "Do you want to see something, Charlie? I want to show you something."

Charlie, pink with embarrassment, nodded and continued to wipe his face. His eyes opened wide when Remus lifted his shirt, revealing four enormous purple scars, gashes that crept and twisted grotesquely from under the werewolf's left arm to the middle of his chest.

"Jesus!"

Remus nodded. "I tried to tear my heart out. My eighteenth birthday. Angsty little thing, I was. So you see? I'm not so brave."

"You did that when…?"

"Of course. These hands couldn't do this." Remus ran four fingers along the scars, almost tenderly, as if he had done it many times before. "It's alright to be glad you aren't like me. I'm glad you're thankful that you've got the power to do something, even if it might not work."

"How old were you when you were bitten?" Charlie asked cautiously.

"Five."

"And you never tried to hurt yourself before then?"

"I did hurt myself, many times." Charlie saw Remus shudder a little, "But we don't scar. Not unless we're in human form, or at that place between human and… not. Had it been earlier in the night, I would have died. For better or worse, and I admit I used to wonder that quite often, I did it just as the sun was rising, and through all my body's confusion, I lived."

"What about the bite? I'm sorry, am I being rude?"

"Oh no," Remus assured him, "Do you want to see it? I keep it enchanted because it's so visible - here-" Remus ran his hand over his neck and the top of his shoulder and muttered something. When the hand came away, there were six perfectly round holes, tapering off as they sunk deeper into his flesh, glowing a silvery-gray. These holes, following the shape of a half moon, were each deep and wide enough to put one's finger in, all the way up to the first joint. They were strangely beautiful, with a shimmering quality, yet hideous at the same time.

Charlie realized he was holding his breath. "That's amazing. I had no idea a bite left perfect teeth marks like that."

"They aren't all like this. This scar comes from the werewolf being killed with his teeth still in me."

"He died with his teeth still in you?"

"My father got him just in time," Remus said, touching the marks, "He just sort of fell away, turned back into himself. He was very young- not to me then, of course- but thinking back on it, he couldn't have been more than sixteen. Pity his parents didn't lock him up."

"Wow."

"I've been meaning to tell you, Charlie," Remus continued, fingertips still grazing the holes, "I'm going to go home for a couple of days. My housemate must be wondering what became of me. While I'm gone I want you to murder every household item you can spare. Practice practice practice. And if you would, I would like you to keep an eye on the boy. I'll be back to fetch him for the full moon."

"Certainly," Charlie agreed.

Just then Sean burst in the room and slammed the door behind him. He was out of breath from jogging up all the stairs, and brought with him the scent of cooking food. He gazed at Remus' bite, dumping the cauldron cakes on the table. "Is that The Scar?"

Remus nodded, pulling his shirt back over himself.

"No fair. Yours is almost pretty. Look at mine." Sean pulled up his sweater. There was a sizable chunk missing out of the side of his stomach, with the same silvery, shimmering glow.

"Ouch." Charlie winced. "He damn near ate you, didn't he?"

"She sure tried, that foul little bitch."