CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE MAN
WARNING: There are three new chapters preceding this one.
The room was enormous, easily as big as the Great Hall, but the ceiling wasn't enchanted to look like the sky above. The ceiling was a swirling, sickly orange, mingling with an even nastier green- abscess green, vomit green.
The ceiling clearly wasn't meant to be looked at.
"There are no bigger or better things," someone said, reading Sean's mind, and though it was raspy, middle aged voice that could have just as easily been his father, the simple sounds made him ache to hear.
"My Master," Sean replied, if only to test the words on his tongue. His restless stomach soured.
His Master Lord Voldemort stood on one side of The Birth, the great gold leafed throne-like chair where he would become his Master's servant; on the other side, a pale young man that Sean was sure must be Percy. He looked a lot like Bill, only he wore thick glasses that made his eyes look big and tired and frightened.
Sean felt hands on his elbows and knew it was time to walk forward. Others stood on each side of the red carpet, some unfamiliar and others he recognized from history books. They smiled and nodded as he grew nearer to Voldemort and Percy.
He didn't want to sit in that chair. It was huge and looked far too comfortable, as if it might swallow him whole and belch out the remains.
Percy came forward, stately, dignified in dark velvet robes. He put his hands on each of Sean's shoulders.
"My Brother," Percy said, "Today you are reborn… Beware-" he paused here to clear his throat, "-I mean be aware-"
Sean had never seen anyone move so fast. In a flash Voldemort had struck Percy on the side of his head with a curse, and just as quickly Percy fell to the ground, rolled down a few of the stairs, and came to rest with a bleeding scalp.
Nobody moved.
"Be aware," Voldemort continued for Percy as if nothing at all had happened, "That you are about to sign over your life. Sit down."
Sean did as he was told. The change of position awoke his aching bones, though the Birth was soft and plush. He was reminded the transformation was still upon him. He broke a sweat, the pain worsening with each pulse of his heart.
"You give yourself to me," Voldemort continued, "Your life is mine. You wake up in the morning for me. You exist for my bidding. You exist for my purposes."
Sean squirmed. His spine screamed and twisted in pain. "Please sir," he moaned, "I don't have long."
"Shut up. If you disobey I strike you down without another thought. Dead."
"Please, sir," Sean cried.
"Say it," Voldemort whispered.
Sean moaned.
"Say it."
"Say what?"
"If you disobey he shall strike you down without another thought," was the frantic reply of a nearby Death Eater.
Sean swallowed. His throat was huge and dry. "If I disobey…I… he shall… strike you… strike me down without another thought."
"As sure you are reborn, you are nothing without me," Voldemort said.
"Huh?" Sean was gasping now. His skin prickled in readiness to sprout hair.
"SAY IT!" Voldemort roared.
With the exception Percy, all the Death Eaters flinched.
"But it doesn't make any sense," Sean cried, "As sure as I am reborn I am nothing without you? Who the hell wrote that?"
Sniggers erupted throughout the room. Sean was in too much pain to care.
"QUIET!" Voldemort ordered, and was instantly obeyed. "Enough of this. You've had your chance. Get him out of that chair! Throw him in the dungeon!"
They rushed forward as Sean felt the strong force of the moon. His back arched, his teeth grew, dug into his bottom lip and he tasted sweet blood. It took the pain away like an elixir and now he was stretching numbly, growing larger, ever larger. His nose burst with a thousand different smells. He growled, deep, throaty, and threatening.
"Stun him!" A voice called.
He could no longer move.
That sweet taste…
More.
His teeth sank into a pale arm and it caused him pain, but his mouth was filled with the sweet, warm liquid and that was all that mattered.
More blood.
Only this.
* * * * * *
As quickly as the wall was destroyed it built itself back up. George was dead. He was dead, dead, dead; Fred could feel that emotional weight trying different paths and weak spots in the wall but it stood firm. Not a thought was in Fred's mind as he lifted George from the ground. A mush of blood and hay, that was all that was left of him.
It wasn't exactly true that his head was completely blank; there was a clear and concise list of what he must do:
Gather up all of George's parts.
Bury the pieces of George's body.
Kill the naked man who lay unconscious among George's remains, before he woke up.
Fred did not even grunt under George's weight. He thought nothing of stooping back down to retrieve George's arm, nor the pool of blood he slipped in leaving the barn.
The enchanted shovel was nearly done. The hole was five foot deep and three foot wide, at least. It would have to do. He threw the body in like a bag of trash, bade the shovel to fill it.
Now, to the matter at hand.
The man was up on his elbows when Fred returned. Fred couldn't remember his name; that sort of information was on the other side of wall. All that lay on his side was dead, dead, dead; kill, kill, kill.
The man rubbed his eyes, sat, shivered, looked around and saw the mess. He clapped his hand over his mouth.
"You killed him," Fred whispered.
"No," said the man. "Fred… do you remember me..."
"The werewolf. It's true what they say."
"No… Fred, you listen to me. He was already dead… his neck broke… I…" The man's face crumpled, his voice cracked, "I tore him up… I tore him up last night… but he was already dead."
"I'm going to kill you."
"I'm sorry, Fred. It wasn't… it wasn't me… Voldemort pushed him off the loft- he landed on his head-"
"I'm going to kill you now."
"Fred…"
* * * * * *
His waking thought was a wish, a plea, to return to that depth of sleep where it was not dark and dank and smelly. Where he didn't ache like he'd tried to kiss a moving train and slimy water did not drip from unknown places to rest in his hair.
And oh god, that fucking smell. The odors of rot and death and misery were everywhere, seemingly breeding and ever more pungent in his nose.
It was a long while before he cared to open his eyes, but when he did there was nothing to see but a tiny hand lighting a wall torch, quickly in and out of the barred hole in the door of the room in which he was locked. And bolted. And certainly trapped.
"Daylight," the dungeon elf said.
Sean sat blinded by the new light. It might well have not been there. It only lit a tiny round cell of dust; a bowl of water at one end, as if he were a dog.
And now he could see great black scabs all up and down his arms. How embarrassing. Was this all the control he had without his wolfsbane? He was suddenly hungry for it, though it wouldn't do him any damn good, especially now.
He saw large gaps of missing brick between his and the prison next to him- even as he peaked in it, a good distance away, tiny pieces were falling. He could see nothing, apparently this prisoner received no daylight, but heard faint, hoarse mumbling. He inched painfully closer to a hole the size of a hinkypunk tank. He didn't dare put his head through, but whispered, "Hello?"
"Let me in," someone mumbled from inside.
"Oh. I don't want to be talked to," Sean decided, turning his back to the hole. Sulking alone sounded much better.
The mumbling became soft, weary sobbing. "Let me in."
"Shut up, you fuckin loony! I've got a headache."
Sean was blessed with a little moment of quiet. He lay out on the disgusting floor to enjoy the silence and feel sorry for himself. There was a drip, drip, drip from the ceiling- he thought he heard something crawling across the floor… too quiet. Too quiet.
"You!" Sean called to the hole, "Where is this place?"
"Do you… know… the Death Curse?" Whoever the voice belonged to, by the sound of it, could hardly breathe.
"I do…" Sean replied cautiously. "Why?"
"Come- come to the hole… please." The voice was desperate. "Bring your torch."
But whoever was in the next cell could be in no condition to hurt him, so Sean dragged himself first to the flame on the wall, then much more slowly to the hole-
"GODS! What the fuck happened to you?"
The man, older than Sean but still very young, had seen been seeing no sun. The parts of his skin not covered in filth were horrible, depraved shades of blue and grey. He was the most pathetic sight Sean had ever seen, absolutely, but there was something shaming –and very familiar- about looking at him. Sean was ashamed almost to tears of his earlier plan, to curl up on the floor and pity himself until he died. Not when someone could suffer like this man and stay alive. Sean wondered why, how it would be possible. He looked so terribly uncomfortable, shifting weakly, looking for a less awkward position when there just wasn't one; they had hung him there just so, so that his bottom didn't quite touch the ground. The weight must have all been in his shoulders and wrists- he was a breathing corpse, sitting with his back to the wall, hands chained to a huge bolt over his head. Unbearable. Sean squeezed through the hole and went to him.
The man studied him blearily, then closed his eyes, head lulling back and forth, back and forth, his bottom half squirming uselessly and endlessly beneath him. Leg in, leg out. Hip to the right, hip to the left. On knee bent. Both. Neither. His chest heaved outward and he gasped for air. It sunk in and he breathed quietly.
Sean came within a foot of the man and was frightened.
"Do you know the Death Curse." The man said again.
"…yes…"
The man lifted his head; so weary. "Use it on me," he said, "and then God help you, use it on yourself."
"I haven't got a wand," Sean replied lamely.
"Please… let me in…"
"Let you- what?"
"God… let me… let me in…"
"What are you talking about? In where? How long have you been here?" Sean sat down in front of him.
The man lifted his head with a new but no less pained energy. He squinted in the torchlight. "Long? There's no long anymore. There's no short. You sit. You sit and you sit and sit and fucking sit and sit and sit and after a while time the leaves. There's no one but you, rotting, rotting, rotting…" And he was exhausted again. His chest heaved.
"You're insane," Sean whispered.
The man laughed. "By now, I'm certain." It was the most insincere and desperate thing Sean had ever heard. He jumped at the noise, nearly dropping the torch. There was something eerily familiar in that laugh, something familiar about the whole thing that he could not place.
"I have to get your hands out of those cuffs," Sean heard himself say.
"I know you."
"You know me?"
"It's not you," the man said, "He was older, but you have the same smell."
"You're insane." The bolt was stuck fast, though the wall was crumbling all around it. It must have been enchanted.
"Like the forest and raw meat," he continued, "You're a werewolf."
Sean froze. "A- a werewolf? I don't know what you're saying. You scare me. I'm just going to free you from this bolt, because it must be very uncomfortable, and then I'm going to crawl back to my cell and there's no need for us to ever speak again."
"Look at what you hold in your hand," said the man.
A torch made of wood. Sean remembered Remus at the gates of the dragon colony, how he opened the outhouse door and burnt the hell out of his hand. He put the torch on the moist floor and it hissed away, leaving them in total darkness.
"Alohomora!" It was the strangest sensation. He could feel a heat, traveling from somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, up his chest, down his arm. Somewhat like the usual sensation when he used magic, only slower, more forced. The end lit torch, but it hurt. His palm burned quickly and he dropped it.
"Put it in my hand," the man said.
Sean got on his knees and felt around. Then, rather awkwardly, he found the man's foot and followed it all that way up to where his hands dangled. There was no hesitation once the man had a hold of the torch. He muttered something, there was small clink of the cuffs giving way, and he was free. The torch lit and the man was laying on the floor, smiling weakly at him. His face looked completely different. So familiar. Where had he seen this face before?
"What's your name?" Sean asked him.
"George."
"MERLIN'S FUCKING BEARD! So this is what Charlie and Bill did to you. Those bastards! They really did hate you, didn't they? Because you're a copy of Fred's dead twin-"
"No," the man said, "I am Fred's dead twin, and you have to help me get out of here."
Special thanks to Trisha and Nikki for keeping on my ass about this fic. Can you believe I'm not done get? Lord, will it ever end?
I almost forgot! Nikki (haha, you asked for it!), and anyone else who chooses to accept it, here is your challenge: Actually first I should say that I'm not exactly sure what a challenge entails, so I'm making it up. Here we go:
1. Must contain Fred and George. Must NOT contain the phrase: "other half"
2. Must be in third person
3. Must contain a green piggy bank
4. No ships. No mention of ships. Rose doesn't like ships.
5. Beer must spill. I like it when beer spills. Can you tell?
6. Harry must use the phrase "fabric softener"
7. Must NOT contain any female characters
8. Fred must ask George for his trousers back no less than three times.
9. Must contain an eloquent and charming frog.
Good luck.