DISCLAIMER:I know ya'll are just dying to, but please don't send me any money for this fic. It is not mine to accept. I am sorry. J

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

OH FATHER

He didn't like the man who'd come.

He'd arrived with this older man who had had a funny smell to him; smelled like the forest and raw meat, the kind Fred had beaten with a mallet and cooked on the hot swirl that George wasn't allowed to touch. Fred had introduced them as Our Brother Bill and Our Friend Mr. Lupin (who left right away).

Bill had looked at George as if he were some kind of bad thing, like the smell of Fred's dirty socks.

And Bill's face was the wrong color. It was shiny, gray, and purple around the eyes. When he coughed he held a rag to his face as if he were afraid his insides might come out.

It sounded like his insides might come out, and George didn't like that either.

Fred pointed him out, on the family portrait in the parlor, this man who was suppose to be Our Brother Bill. But it didn't look very much like the same person except the long red hair.

Bill and Fred hugged, cried, laughed and talked all the day about things the George didn't understand, no matter how carefully he listened. What George liked the least was that Fred didn't pay him any attention after this man came. The man was so sick that George guessed he needed all of it.

In the evening he tried to show Fred a drawing he'd made. He thought maybe Fred would show it to Bill and Bill would like it and stop looking at him so strangely. But Fred had told him to keep quiet, Our Brother Bill is talking, and he would have a look in a moment.

But Fred hadn't looked, and it had already been lots of moments. George didn't know how long a moment was, but it couldn't be this long. The brother Bill talked so slow and quiet it made George sleepy. He grew tired of waiting, of "keeping himself busy" as Fred had instructed him, and wandered into the back yard where the sky was darkening.

He had a strange feeling in his chest that he'd never felt before- it was sort of like what it felt like to be sad, only sadder than that, and it burned. His chest felt so tight he couldn't breathe very well. His eyes watered, like he was crying, but really he wanted to hit something, anything, until it either hit him back or screamed because it felt just as bad as he did.

Clutching his drawing to his chest, he sat under the Weeping Willow to wait for the feeling to go away, but it only seemed to get worse. It was chilly and the grass was wet and soaking through his trousers. He wished badly that Fred would come out and look for him.

Ah, there he was.

Merely the sight of the dark figure coming round the house and across the lawn made George feel better.

Silly Fred. Why hadn't he just used the back door?

"Would you like to see it now?" George called. "I worked on it a long time, Fred. A long, long time."

The figure quickened, raising a finger to its lips.

"Oh! Sorry," George whispered.

"Be quiet, my child."

"Who are you?" He could see no face under the cloak.

"I've been waiting for you all day, George."

"How do you know my name?"

The glisten of a smiling mouth shown from within the blackness of the cloak. He brought his hood back just slightly so that George could see him; he was dark-haired, had nice teeth. "I'm your father."

These words had little meaning to George.

"Oh," he said, "Another visitor for Fred."

"No, my child," The dark figure told him, "I have come to see you."

"Me?"

"Of course, George dear. After all, Fred is not my son. Just you."

"Nice to meet you, father," George said politely.

The man grumbled a noise that George supposed was a laugh.

"You don't look like my father from the picture."

The dark figure crouched stiffly and sat beside him. "I made you. Not him."

"Why?"

"Why what, my child?"

"Why did you make me?"

"For Fred."

George didn't know what to say, so he said, "Thank you…"

"But what, child?"

"Sometimes I think he wants me to go away."

"Maybe you should go away, my boy. You could come away with me."

The dark figure reached out and touched George's shoulder. It didn't feel right and his first impulse was to shrink away. The fingers were cold and unnaturally stiff. George didn't know the word for it, but he felt that this man, his father, really didn't have the feelings he was trying to show.

The word was fake, he thought. And that was followed by a brand new thought…

"Fred is my brother," George told his dad, "We're twins. How can you be my father and not his?"

"Can I see your drawing?" His father asked.

George was still clutching it to his chest. He shook his head.

"Come now, Georgie. Show your father the drawing. I'm sure it's very pretty."

George reluctantly brought it away from himself, smoothing out the crinkles before handing it to the man. It was a drawing he did with markers. There were only three at the Burrow that weren't completely dried up, but luckily they were just the colors he needed: red, black, and yellow.

The drawing was of three identical figures, all with wild crimson hair, holding hands and smiling under a giant, flaming sun.

"It's me and Fred and George," George explained proudly. "And we're all alive and happy."

"No wonder Fred didn't want to look at it," said George's father, crumpling the paper in one fist. "It's a terrible picture."

The feeling in George's chest seemed to get worse. It was like a burning lump had dropped lower, farther and heavier into his belly. Hollow, like the feeling that Fred told him was hungry. Only worse.

"Don't cry, my child," said the father, tapping him with those cold fingers again, "I can teach you to draw so that it looks as real as a photograph."

George sniffed, his lip quivering though he didn't want it to. "Would he like it then? Would he like me?"

"I can teach you many things, my son. Come with me."

"Let me ask Fred if it's alright," George said, moving to stand.

"Why?" was the sharp reply. His father sat him down, hard, by the shoulder. "I am your father. You needn't ask him anything."

George said in small voice, "You never answered my question."

"I can be your father and not his because you are not his twin. Fred only says that to make you feel better." He was straining to be kind, but George knew that he was getting angry… frustrated, because he'd heard that tone from Fred many times over the last month. "He tells you that because his real brother is dead."

"But he says I'm his real brother, too."

The Father snorted that unpleasant laughter again. "You're certainly difficult like him. I made you, my boy. Come with me and I promise you'll never be ignored or unwanted again."

"Really?"

The Father, it seemed, could no longer hide his exasperation. "Yes, yes, of course. Now come along."

Don't listen to him.

George pricked his ears. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" His father's eyes darted nervously around.

Go back to the house.

"That!" George exclaimed, starting.

"Come with me, Georgie. We'll draw pictures together. It'll be great fun."

Let me in, George. I'll take care of everything.

"I don't think I should," George said.

"But your mother wants to meet you. Don't you want to meet your mother?"

Mother? George liked the sound of that. He had spent a lot of time while Fred was busy, looking at the portrait that hung on the wall in the parlor. George knew, because he asked, that the plump woman was Fred's mother. Sometimes she looked mean, but other times she would hug all the children and kiss them on their foreheads. He would often secretly pretend that the George in the picture was him.

"The plump woman in the picture?"

"Yes," his father assured him, "The plump woman in the picture."

George don't…

"Is my mother nice? Will she kiss me on my forehead?"

"Yes-yes she's lovely. Stunning. She bakes cookies. Let's go now, my son." His father stood and reached out to take his hand, but George stood on his own.

He walked out of the garden with the man's icy arm around his shoulder. The worse-than-sad feeling he had was gone now, but was replaced by another, and George didn't know if it was any better…

Well, the site being down gave me lots of time to write… I'm now ahead of myself, so you can expect an update almost everyday instead of every month or so. J .