DISCLAIMER: I don't mean no harm.

SINCE THIS FIC HAS DRUG OUT BEYOND ALL REASON, BEFORE CHAPTER 23 I PRESENT TO YOU…

A LONG LONG RECAP OF CHAPTERS 1-21

Percy seeks harmless revenge on Fred and George by ruining a cauldron full of Screaming Gumballs the night before their joke shop's Grand Opening. The joke goes sour, however, when George tests one in the morning and dies. Meanwhile, Voldemort grows more powerful, cleverly devising plans to convert even the most unlikely people. The Weasleys appear on his destroy list shortly after George's death, so the family goes into hiding. Fred leaves the hiding place to wander the earth as a hobo, searching for George, who he can't believe is dead. Percy leaves and joins Voldemort under the promise that Voldemort will bring George back to life. With Voldemort's advice and influence, Percy becomes the Minister of Magic.

Charlie returns to dragon colony and drowns himself in alcohol for seven years, until on what would have been the twins' twenty-fifth birthday, Fred knocks on his door. Fred insists he is waiting for something, but he doesn't know what.

Bill, ill as a result of volunteering to be a guinea pig for one of the twin's experiments, is sick of hiding and intends to go to Charlie. He leaves the hiding place through the front door and tries to Apparate away. He's rusty, and ends up on a sidewalk, surrounded by Muggles, unable to move. He is rushed to a Muggle hospital, where Voldemort, disguised as an annoying nurse, tracks him down, Voldemort informs Bill that he, Voldemort, is responsible for crippling him, and that Bill is going to die the day after the full moon.

All over the country, Ministry officials begin to storm wizards' houses, hog tying and dragging werewolves from their homes. They are stuffed into trains and taken to a camp to wait out the full moon. Among these werewolves are Remus Lupin and an angry young man named Sean, who quickly befriend each other. They are taken to a giant, enclosed field near a warehouse. The werewolves celebrate when the full moon appears and they do not transform. A mysterious Mr. Tromedlov, supposedly under the orders of Minister Weasley, invites them all to join him in the warehouse. Remus and Sean don't stay around to find out why; Remus forces Sean to leave.

A boy shows up at Charlie's flat, bearing a scary resemblance to George, though he speaks and acts as a child. Charlie thinks someone is pulling a sick joke, but Fred insists that he is in fact both the real George and a mere copy of him. Confused and tired, Charlie gets drunk and asks them to leave.

Remus tries to take Sean home, only to find that his family has abandoned their house. In desperation, Remus and Sean go to Charlie at the dragon colony to discuss what Percy has been doing. Remus tells Charlie that he thinks the "cure" is a trick, that Voldemort himself came up with a temporary solution, one full moon only, to trick the werewolves into thinking they were cured, so that they would infect others. Voldemort would then bribe the old and new werewolves with more of the magic cure. The bribed would not only become Death Eaters, but would have to agree to sign a magical document that would allow Voldemort to restore the Dementors to Azkaban, thereby releasing his most power allies from the prison. They implement a plan; they guess that Voldemort will go to Percy on the full moon to get the final signature that he needs. Sean will act as a Secret Keeper for Bill and Charlie, because Remus anticipates that he will be too incapacitated the day after the full moon to rat on anyone, and Charlie will attempt to kill Voldemort.

At the Burrow, George and Fred try to live as normally as possible. Fred visits George's grave and speaks to him, almost as if he is really there. After a few weeks, Bill comes to terms with that fact that his end is near and visits Fred. The clone George, who remains very innocent and childlike, is lured away by a man who claims to be his father. The man is Voldemort. Meanwhile, Remus visits and says goodbye to Sirius. Sean gets the snot beat out of him by Fitzie, a tiny but fiery half-leprechaun.

The night of the full moon, Remus and Sean retreat to a barn. George the clone appears to Sean and begs him to eat a cookie that will sedate him. Sean refuses, freaks out, and is lured away by Voldemort. Remus is knocked unconscious and the George clone is thrown off the hayloft.

Sean agrees to become a Death Eater, but makes one wisecrack too many and is thrown in the dungeon to suffer his transformation. The next morning, or night, it is impossible to tell, Sean meets the man in the cell next to him through a hole in the wall. The man hangs by his wrists from some kind of unbreakable enchanted wall. His is thin and sick and uncomfortable. He asks Sean to kill him. He tells Sean to kill himself. He reveals that he is George, not the clone George, but the real George Weasley, who had been locked down there for years. He fashions a wand from a wall torch and some of Sean's hair. Meanwhile, Remus wakes to discover that he has torn the George clone's body apart and that Fred has found them. He is about to kill Remus, and Voldemort is about to kill them both, but George is finally able to communicate with his twin. He convinces Fred to go with Remus. They Apparate away.

The chapter that precedes this new one discusses why the hell George is in the dungeon instead of being dead. I would recommend reading it again, as it clears up some of the more important aspects of this giant fucking mess I've made. Sorry if I forgot anything. On we go.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

DAWN OF THE DEAD

They had a wand of sorts- now what? A darkness clouded George's eyes. For seven years (though Sean was afraid to tell him that) George had hardly used his muscles. Now that the excitement of his freedom was fading, he could walk only a few steps before his ill-used legs buckled underneath him. He had dragged himself to the far wall and just lay there. His nostrils flared ever so slightly. He muttered to himself so ferociously that it Sean wondered if it hurt. His eyes were so used to the darkness by now that he could make out freckles on George's face. And tears.

"Don't," George said, noticing Sean, "Don't you dare say anything."

"But-"

"I'll use the last of my strength to murder you, and why not. I've nothing else to lose."

"George…"

With a tiny smile on his face, George curled up and for the first time looked somewhat comfortable. "I'm out of plans. I need a decent meal, and lots of."

"Do you know when I'll be… executed?" Sean gulped. "We could try something then."

"No good. He did his inductions and executions last night. You must have arrived late."

"But- he came to fetch me, himself. He couldn't have been executing people all night."

George tugged at a tuft of hair on his chin. "I wonder…"

"What?"

"Suddenly I give a flying shit about your sob story. Go on, tell me."

And so Sean did, about Remus and the werewolf camp, about Bill's illness, about his family and Fitzie and Voldemort's plan and everything else he could think of.

George seemed to be concentrating hard on his words, and when the story was over he was silent for a long time. Finally he said, "How do you feel?"

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me how your feel. Be honest, even if it sounds pathetic, which I'm sure it will."

Sean scooted himself a little closer to George. Insults or no, George had an idea and Sean wanted to help. "Tired. Sore. In pain."

"Do you like being a werewolf, Sean?"

Sean raised his eyebrow. It had to be a trick question.

George seemed not to notice. "How long until the pain goes away?"

"Why do you ask?" Sean said sharply.

George rolled his eyes. "Now don't be offended, Sweetie. Just answer the goddamn question."

"Christ. You sound like Fitzie."

"If I get out of here alive, the wee man and I will be great friends. Answer my

goddamn question."

"Pain fades at dinnertime…if I'm not made to sleep on a wet stone floor."

It was a perfect time for Sean to bemoan the fact that his trousers were soaked through with muck and his bottom had long fallen asleep, but George wouldn't have been listening. Instead he half walked, half drug himself to the door on his side of the cell and tried to shove his face between the bars. "It's soon."

"What's soon?"

"Shut it."

Sean had been told to shut up more today than in his entire life.

"They'll come to fetch you soon. The other werewolves- he'll have them up in that main hall. While they're miserable from last night. He'll tell them the truth, use your execution to scare them into getting the Mark."

"Oh." Sean stared at his hands.

Inexplicably, George's face brightened. "This is wonderful."

"Is it?" Sean growled.

"Absolutely. You'll take the wand; hide it in your pants- I'll show you how to make me invisible. I've heard so much living in this cell- I'll follow you- there are Apparition wards all over these dungeons and in nearly every room- except where the Birth is, or so I've been told. Voldemort thinks he doesn't need it. Those who go in that room go voluntarily and are too frightened to try to Apparate out by the time they feel they need to-"
"-I don't Apparate very well-"
"I do. I'll take you with me. The Death Eaters will see that I'm missing when they fetch you, they'll be distracted looking for me- it will be perfect. I can crawl up there if I have to. You know Voldemort- he's so goddamn longwinded. He'll talk forever, long enough for me to get up there and we'll both disappear- we'll find my brother."

It all sounded well and good to Sean- but the way George muttered at random moments, yelled gibberish about Spell-O tape to someone who wasn't there…

Sean was scared. But what else was there to try?

* * * * * * * *

"STOP THAT!" Charlie pounded on the Zonko's Extraordinarily Magical Bubble of Silence in which Ian and Scott were dueling. The two either ignored Charlie or couldn't hear him.

"I TOLD YOU!" Charlie roared. "YOU ARE NOT COMING WITH US!"

Ian rubbed his wand against his chest as if he were shining an apple. Dropping it, he reared back empty handed and, like a Muggle baseball pitcher, chucked a purple ball of light at Scott.

"I mean it!" Charlie began, "This is serious-"

Scott ducked. The purple ball hit the bubble's wall and oozed to the floor. A little purple creature with long, sparkling fingernails rose from the puddle on the carpet. It yanked the knees of Scott's holey jeans. Scott waddled about with his pants around his ankles, screaming, terrified of the little creature who now desired his Smurfs undershorts. Ian roared with laughter no one could hear.

"You-- Muggle-born…ARRRRRGH!" Charlie plunged his wand into the bubble. A gust of freed sound roared around them as it popped, tousling everyone's hair. The purple creature dissolved. "Now stop."

Scott was in the middle of screaming a curse. Ian's head swelled. His eyes bulged

and exploded orange sludge.

"I SAID STOP!" Charlie whacked Ian hard with his wand, restoring his original face.

"Sorry, Chuck," Scott muttered, bending to gather his trousers. "Good curse, E. You make it up yourself?"

"Yeah," Ian said, and echoed "Sorry, Chuck."

"Clean up this fucking mess." Charlie turned to Darla, Fitzie's wife, on the couch with Bill's head in her lap. She fed him spoonfuls of painkiller and the miraculous green potion (which was not working so miraculously now). "It's nearly ten o'clock." Charlie wrung his hands. "Where is Remus? Where is his noxious little shit? It's nearly ten o'clock. It's nearly ten o'clock."

"Ten in the morning, Chuck," Scott said, "Relax."

"He said early morning!"

Bill tugged helplessly at Darla's shirt collar. "No… no more-"

"Drink, Bill," Darla said softly, "You've got to drink it."

Bill wanted to ask Darla to stop giving him the painkiller Fitzie had brewed because it somehow had to be responsible for the waves of pain- sporadic, nauseating waves that would pitch him and start him and roll him and crash him never, ever quiet and still toward death. But Fitzie was already gone somewhere seeking more ingredients to make more potion, more pain- just when Bill thought the pain was the most terrible it could get, it was worse. Yet no matter how unbearable it seemed to be, it was never enough to knock him unconscious.

What he didn't know is that Fitzie, before he left, had given Bill a potion that prevented just that, for fear he might die in his sleep.

"Something stronger," Fitzie had said, "There must be something stronger. I'll go home, I will. I'll ask my dear old father."

"Tut, Fitz." Darla told him. "Omit the dillydally."

"Darling…?"

"Don't you play innocent with me, Michael." Darla slammed the goblet of Bill's medicine on the end table. "Now is not the time to reopen your father's wounds."

Fitzie zipped his jacket. "Father's wounds, Cupcake? What about my wounds?"

"You get your ingredients and you hurry back," Darla wagged her finger, "or pay hell. Understand me, honeypot?"

Fitzie had sniffed, threw the end of a scarf over his shoulder, attached some absurdly large flight goggles to his eyes. He and his broomstick disappeared.

* * * * |* *

Charlie jumped ten feet in the air when Remus and Fred appeared in the living room. They fell to floor, Remus breathing hard, his ribs pushing with each breath through his naked back, bite scar shimmering. Fred didn't move or seem to be breathing.

"Fred? Dear God don't tell me he's-"

"He's in shock," Remus gasped, reaching for the nearest throw rug and wrapping it about himself.

"But he's covered in blood!" Charlie gathering up his brother and inspected him.

"The blood belongs to the George clone… I…" Remus lowered his eyes. "How is Bill?"

"Holding up beautifully," Darla said, but her eyes were not so convincing. "Fitzie went to look for something just a wee bit stronger."

Remus wiped moisture from his forehead. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. "We don't have time. Dress him, give him the last of the other potion. We have to go."

Darla's eyes widened. When she spoke again it was a quiet but deadly hiss, "Don't be absurd. He can't go anywhere, he's far too-"

"He will die within the hour," Remus said forcefully, "There's little to be done about it. Please, get him dressed."

Bill buried his face in Darla's side. His shoulders shook.

On Darla's face was murder. "What is wrong with you, talking like that in front of him! I should-"

"S'alright," Bill choked, "S'nothing I didn't know..."

Darla shooshed him, held more painkiller to his mouth, shook her head in silent indignation.

Remus cleared his throat. "Bad news, Charlie."

"The boy, isn't it?" Charlie scowled. "Sean. He turned, didn't he?"

Remus paused. "Yes."

"No," Fred said suddenly.

Everyone spun around to him, even Bill.

"Fred?" Charlie slapped him softly on the cheek.

"The annoying one," Fred said, as if in his sleep. "He's with me."

"With you?" Charlie shook his head.

Remus bent down very close to Fred's face. "Who is 'me?'"

"George," Fred said. He looked rather contented, like a person just awoken from sweet dreams. "Real George. Not Dead."

Charlie slapped Fred's arm. "For fuck's sake, Fred-"

"-Quiet, quiet!" Remus said, and very loudly, as if Fred was deaf: "George? Where are you?"

"A dungeon. You-Know-Who. How old am I?"

"Twenty-five, George. You're twenty-five."

A dull laugh erupted from Fred's mouth. "Seven years."

"Fred this is not funny!" Charlie yelled. "Wake up!"

"Charlie… remember Sarah…. Filch's office, Spell-O tape, whipped cream."

Charlie gasped.

"What does that mean?" said Remus sharply.

"It's- it's him… it has to be. George! Where are you? How are you still alive? What have you- how are you going to escape?"

"Too many questions," Remus said, holding out his arm. "We'll wear him out. It's difficult to speak through another."

"Don't tell Fred I'm alive. Might not get out." Fred twitched. His eyes fluttered open.

* * * * * * ** * *

Percy awoke feeling a hundred years old. His head injury from the night before pounded mercilessly. Downstairs he heard his mother-in-law, that cheese-grater voice of hers that never ceased to make him cringe- "…take the baby and come home with me… yes I know it'll be crowded darling but you won't be so lonely-"

Percy pushed his glasses up his nose, jumped, died with fright. Voldemort stood at the window in a nightshirt and leather slippers, an old nightcap with a puff of cotton on the end like he was some evil, giant house elf. He seemed to be admiring Minister Weasley's beautiful landscaping, the pond he'd had installed in the back yard- standing there like someone who might actually care about flowers, babies, Christmas, what have you. Someone nearly human. Nearly. The Dark Lord was in a brand new body but he could never conceal those eyes- any color: brown, green, blue, they hissed and boiled over with evil… It struck Percy that this was another one of his Master's sickeningly unfunny jokes- the way he stood pondering there, his two fingers on his chin…

Oliver Wood's chin.

Oliver Wood, that stupid, stupid bastard! No one in Quidditch history had even attempted to stretch their career as long as Oliver had. It was a difficult sport; no one's skull was that thick, it just wasn't possible. Oliver made it to age twenty-seven before that final blow to the head. The Quaffle hit just the right spot. Oliver never saw again.

With milky eyes, weepy, swollen, absolutely blind, Oliver went back to the luxurious house by the ocean that Quidditch had bought him. He went to sit alone, to wait for the salty air to erode the house to bits, to himself be eaten by the ocean's roar. Quidditch, for so long, was all that he had made important. Quidditch, his best friend. Quidditch his wife, mother, and child.

Now nothing. Gone. He was a dead soul. All that was left was to wait for his body to follow.

When Percy called on him, Oliver still wore his Quidditch robes, stained with his own blood, his hands squeezing the kneepads, squeezing, squeezing. It made Percy sick. Oliver shared this nervous habit with Fred, the white knuckles, the tight jaw. It was only after George died that Fred did it, as if knee-squeezing was the Mark of a dead man, the dead trying to knead, knead themselves back to life.

Oliver had been sitting in a hard, straight-backed chair. The window was thrown wide; he faced the cold air and roaring waves. Even so, the stench of blood and filth was enough to kill Lord Voldemort himself.

Pity Lord Voldemort sent Percy instead.

"Voldemort can bring back your sight." Percy told Oliver without first announcing himself, standing behind Oliver's chair, willing his voice to be strong, unrecognizably strong. "He can restore your youth, if your join us."

"You're a fool." Oliver said. "And the lapdog of a fool."

Percy's nodded; his secret agreement.

"Why?" asked Oliver. He didn't even try to turn to the sound of Percy's voice.

Why what? Percy had wanted to ask, but he knew why what. He walked around the chair to face Oliver, holding out his hands as if begging. "He-he tells me the truth. He can give you whatever you want. It's amazing. He brings the dead back."

"A fine promise." Oliver leaned back slightly, squinting the useless eyes. Seemed to think deeply of something.

"You'll see again, Oliver," Percy said, "You'll see ten times better than you ever did."

"What will I see?" Oliver demanded. He yelled not at Percy, but at the crashing sea. "What is worth seeing, Percy? Answer me that. Tell me what is worth seeing."

Percy bowed his head.

The milky eyes were weeping now. Small sobs. "When? Tell me when will I see?"

"When you have proved yourself."

"PROVED MYSELF? Proved what of myself, Percy? Proved that my life has ended prematurely? That I haven't a goddamn thing left to live for but I'm too afraid to just fucking die?"

"But if you can see, there will be a reason to live."

"Ah," Oliver said, sitting back. "I will see again when I prove that I am a fool."

Percy closed his eyes. "Yes."

"A fool like you."

"Yes."

Suddenly Oliver was laughing. He laughed and slapped his thick kneepads. He groped for his broomstick, lying at his side like a loyal pet. A worn spear of hopelessness, the broom whistled out the window toward the sea, greeting it, Percy was sure, with quiet dignity.

"Give me your arm, Head Boy."

At first Voldemort had been very pleased with Oliver. Oliver could not gaze upward, could not look forward to a brighter future; for him there was only the surrounding blackness and the ripe odor of old blood.

But what Voldemort hated, Percy saw immediately, was that no fear existed in Oliver Wood, not of what lay before him, behind, or ahead. He was not born evil or scared evil, nor beaten into trembling submission like Percy. No, Oliver charged into that throne-like chair as if it were Quaffle-bearing opposition, as if he expected the Dark Mark alone to repair his blindness. But not his life, he knew that could never be repaired, and that was what made him different from the other Death Eaters. Master had been right. Oliver never got the hang of it. He asked too many whys and what-fors. He talked back and merely flinched when hit with curses.

Then last night became the last straw. Percy has regained consciousness just as they were dragging Sean away. He was growling, biting himself, dripping blood all over the floor. Oliver stood and shouted: "EAT YOURSELF ALL UP, WOLFBOY! A BETTER FATE THAN THIS! I'M STILL BLIND! I'M STILL BLIND! I'M STILL BLIND! I'M STILL-"

Oliver's last words. Voldemort murdered him without hesitation, not with a wand but his own horrible hands. Terrified but motionless, Percy and his fellow Death Eaters watched as Voldemort shed his old skin … and then Oliver stood and looked round to all of them with eyes no longer blind. Voldemort ordered his old body taken away, laughing… "I told you that you would see again, Oliver, my impatient boy."

The mere memory of Voldemort's voice dragged Percy back to the present. "What do you want… Master?"

Voldemort produced a scroll from his robes and released the end. It rolled down and down and down, onto the floor and under the bed. Percy saw that there were dozens- hundreds of signatures on it. He waited for his Master to produce a quill and parchment, but his Master just stood there, the same horrible grin on his face.

"Percy, my dear," he said dangerously.

"Yes?"

"Get up."

"What- what are you going to do?"

"It's a surprise. Up you get." Voldemort smiled. He tapped the scroll once; it rolled up and up and up.

I know some of you were probably expecting the story to end with this chapter. Sorry. There's just too much going on. How long? Don't know. Could be one chapter, could be five. Two long ones is my guess. Thanks for your patience J s