Chapter Three: Blood in the Snow

Augustus Rookwood was not a memorable man.

He was unremarkable; with greying brown hair, dark eyes and a tall, lean figure. He looked just like any other 40-year-old man who you would pass on the street, smile at and say hello, then be on your way.

However, it was his expression that showed his true personality. He was smiling threateningly in a near-grimace, and his eyes showed the insanity within. It was clear that the man had gone mad.

George knew a little of his past, having heard stories from his dad. Rookwood had worked in the Department of Mysteries in the First Wizarding War, manipulating politicians and ministry workers alike, working his way to the top and discovering all of Magical Britain's secrets. The fact that an Unspeakable could be a Death Eater and controlling the Department of Mysteries on behalf of Voldemort shocked many people at his trial, and he was sentenced to Azkaban until escaping in 1996. Clearly Azkaban had driven him mad, like it had done to many others.

The last anyone had seen of the Death Eater was at the Battle of Hogwarts. George had seen Percy fighting him and had assumed Rookwood to be among one of the captured or injured.

Yet somehow, he had escaped.

"Good evening, Weasley," Rookwood said charmingly, almost as if they were having a pleasant chat at a bar whilst drinking a nice warm butterbeer. "I hope you're nice and comfortable. We're going to have a bit of fun."

George tried to pull a disgusted face, but it was as if the muscles in his body weren't working. He was completely paralysed. It felt horrible to be completely defenceless against a murderer and he was mentally kicking himself for not being able to react sooner. Although he knew there was little he could have done. Rookwood had the element of surprise on his side.

George glanced at his wand which was soaking up muddy water. It was about four feet away and he knew he could reach it if only he were free of the petrificus totalus jinx. He tried a non-verbal, wandless summoning charm but nothing happened. Closing his eyes, he focused on bringing the wand towards him, chanting in his mind "Accio wand. Accio. Accio wand!"

Nothing.

Well, Fred was always more talented than me at charms, he thought bitterly.

"Giving up already?" Rookwood sneered, and George opened his eyes to give him a deadly glare. "Well, that's good. At least it makes my job easier."

The Death Eater twirled his wand around and crouched down next to him. His dirty, frayed robes brushed against George's arm and the unpleasant smell of stale, week-old sweat reached George's nose. He would have wrinkled his nose if he could move. It was clear Rookwood had been on the run for the whole week since the Battle and hadn't had any time to care about hygiene.

"Poor lonely Weasley," the ex-prisoner whispered in George's functioning ear, stroking the younger man's hair in a creepy gesture which sent shivers up his spine. It was a caring gesture which his mother had done many times but now it seemed tainted by the horror of this twilit evening it seemed unlikely he would survive. "He's all alone, about to die in the woods where no one can hear him scream. Maybe he's wishing for death so he can be with his dead little twin… but I'm not going to give him that sweet release for a long, long time. This blood traitor is going to suffer until he's unable to even talk or think, and then maybe – if I'm feeling kind – I'll kill him. This is going to be so much fun."

A wave of emotions overtook George, unobservable from his face due to the spell he was under, but it showed in his eyes. Anger, fear, helplessness. And above all, sadness. All he could think was please just kill me already and let me be with Fred.

"I'm going to torture you until you're more insane than I am. You'll be a drooling mess unable to communicate, reduced to a vegetative state like Frank and Alice Longbottom – and if I'm sent back to Azkaban, I don't care. It'll be very, very funny to watch you in pain."

The last words were said in a quiet, almost comforting murmur, but the meaning of the words completely contradicted their softness. Rookwood had been driven into madness. There was no doubt about it. Anyone who thought it was entertaining to watch someone scream from inflicted pain was clearly a psychopath.

Rookwood bent down further until his warm breath was on George's neck. Then he kissed the younger man on the forehead almost tenderly.

George was internally freaking out. His eyes were wide and his heart was beating at a rate he hadn't even known was possible. He felt like he might vomit.

"Poor Freddie. I almost feel sorry for you." Then Rookwood gave a sickening grin and sat back up again. "Oh sorry, my mistake. You're George aren't you? Little Freddie is the one that died… well, I would know that wouldn't I? After all, I was the one who killed him."

Breathing in deeply, George stared up at the canopy of trees above him. The sun had already set, painting the sky in dark blues and greys, and the leaves rustled peacefully in an early summer breeze. Despite the time of year, it was fairly chilly – but it was nothing compared to the unsettling cold feeling which had rushed through his body at Augustus Rookwood's words.

It all made sense now.

Percy had been with Fred when the wall exploded, collapsed, and quickly killed him. Percy had chased Rookwood away from the scene, furiously bombarding him with dark curses George never would have guessed his perfect older brother even knew about. He had looked incredibly upset and angry at Rookwood… why had George not seen it earlier? Then it seemed Rookwood had escaped (damn you, Percy, George thought. Couldn't you have killed him when you had the chance? It would have saved me lots of trouble) and now he had found George, hoping to torture him and kill him painfully. It seemed the Death Eater wanted to finish what he started; he wanted to destroy the Weasley twins. Perhaps he wanted the fame and glory which would come from within the Death Eater circles (most of whom were now in Azkaban), where everyone would know that he was the one to finish the mischievous, powerful, irritating Weasley twins once and for all. But it seemed more likely he was just in it for the fun; the blood lust; the adrenaline rush which came with killing.

He was sick in the head.

If George wasn't so angry, he would have pitied the man. He had been reduced to nothing after Voldemort's demise. All his "friends" were gone, all his power was gone. It was pitiful.

"I murdered your brother," Rookwood whispered, grinning. "I caused the explosion which killed him. It's funny isn't it? How fragile humans are. One tiny bombarda maxima broke his bones, crushed his skull in with metal pipes and drove sharp debris into his heart, and no spell would have been fast enough to protect him. I saw the light leave his eyes… and it caused me immense satisfaction to know I took those lights away."

A furious tear escaped from George's eye, and he hated himself for his vulnerability. He was breathing heavily, almost panicking, and every word Rookwood said felt like a corrugated knife digging further and further into his chest, twisting his insides and causing as much unimaginable pain as possible. The trees above looked blurry from the tears obscuring his vision and he tried to calm down.

Think of Angelina, George told himself mentally. Think of Quidditch, or Hogwarts, or long summers at the Burrow inventing potions and products. Think of Fred, pulling faces back at Tonks and transfiguring his nose into a pig's snout during an Order meeting, laughing at a joke Lee just made, dancing crazily at the Yule Ball, pulling you into a group hug with Ginny, enchanting paper airplanes to fly around Filch's office during detention; 11 year old Fred laughing hysterically at the Giant Squid which tickled his hand as it ate the chocolate frogs, 3 year old Fred giving triumphant shouts as you flew far above the Burrow on the brooms stolen from Bill and Charlie –

Don't think of his lifeless cold body lying on the Great Hall floor. Think of the happy 20 years you had with him, not the lonely 80 years you'll have without him.

But now – it seemed unlikely he would have any of those 80 years left anyway.

There was a high-pitched ringing sound in George's ears. Since losing his ear he'd had problems with balance, nausea and almost deafening ringing sounds but he knew this time it was from anger and nothing else.

He was so immersed in his pain that he didn't even hear or see the curse coming.

George gritted his teeth as the excruciating pain struck him. It felt familiar; the cruciatus.

It felt like thousands of knives had been dipped in red hot lava and were stabbing every inch of his body continuously. His limbs felt like they were being stretched apart and then smashed to pieces and he couldn't breathe and his vision turned white –

The pain was worse than when his ear had been cursed off by Snape, and when his heart had been split in two after he had learned of Fred's death. It felt like he was being burnt and torn apart from the inside and when would it stop, would it ever stop –

He needed to scream and shout but his mouth refused to move and it felt like his tongue was tied, so all he could manage was a soft whimper. But at least it was a sound.

Twenty seconds felt like it was stretched into an eternity before the pain finally ended abruptly.

George gasped in some air desperately.

"That was no fun," Rookwood complained almost childishly. "I want to hear you scream."

The words barely registered in George's mind. Even after the curse ended, the pain was so overpowering, so all-encompassing that his senses felt dull and he already felt like he might pass out.

Rookwood kicked at his victim's ribs and a nauseating crack sounded in the silence of the woods. George closed his eyes and gasped in several sharp breaths. An owl hooted nearby, and George pessimistically wondered if he'd ever hear an owl again after tonight.

"Finite incantatem," Rookwood eventually muttered.

George's heart skipped a beat. He couldn't believe Rookwood could be so stupid, but he supposed all Death Eaters lacked common sense given they followed a half blood Dark Lord who preached about blood purity. It seemed Rookwood had decided to release him from the petrificus totalus jinx because he wanted to hear him scream – but he had forgotten this would also give him the freedom to move again.

As soon as he was released from the petrifying curse, George leapt at the chance. Trying his best to ignore the complete agony seeping through his bones, he lunged towards his wand and desperately grabbed at it.

"Incarcerous!" the Death Eater yelled, taking a few steps back. George ducked the spell, his head hitting the ground hard, bringing stars to his eyes, and turned towards Rookwood. "Cruc–"

"Expelliarmus!" George exclaimed, his voice hoarse. There was now mud and blood in his hair and he felt dizzy from the cruciatus, his possible broken rib and now the impact of his head on the ground, but he jumped towards Rookwood as soon as the Death Eater's wand flew from his hands. "Stupefy! Expulso, tarantallegra, locomotor mortis, redactum skullus!" he fired curses and hexes in quick succession, showing his skill at duelling and huge knowledge of spells. And he was accurate in his aim too.

However, Rookwood ducked and jumped out of the way of the spells, and quickly rolled out of the way, reaching for his wand. The expulso hit a tree instead, splitting the trunk in two and propelling wood into the air, but it fell away from the two wizards.

As soon as the other had a grasp on his wand, George leapt forwards and jumped at Rookwood with his full body weight. They scrambled for a moment, fighting for survival, desperate to seize each other's wands and win the fight. Both threw a few punches, George nimbly avoiding a hit aimed at his throat which could have permanently affected his breathing or voice. He pulled at Rookwood's wand but the Death Eater kept a firm grip, managing to knee George in the stomach in the process.

George fought bravely and seemed to be holding his own – until Rookwood made a lunge for his wand, turning the tables and pushing George off him, and the wand flew into the ex-prisoner's outstretched hand, seemingly from a non-verbal summoning charm. The twin fell back against the ground, his elbows resting in mud, and Rookwood grasped the two wands triumphantly.

Oh great, he thought to himself. So Rookwood can do a non-verbal summoning charm but I can't? That seems really fair.

As Rookwood smirked maliciously, hatred in his eyes, blood dripping down from his nose and giving him a terrifying, murderous look, George's next thought was: That's it. I'm screwed. This is the end.

"I could kill you now," Rookwood said calmly, spitting blood onto a rock. George's heart was beating fast from adrenaline, so he internally begged it to shut up. It felt so loud that it seemed likely the other man could hear his fear.

The warm May night suddenly seemed five degrees colder.

"You could have killed me at any point this evening – but you just decided to have a nice little speech instead," George replied sarcastically, hiding how terrified he was with humour. Just like he and Fred had always done. Pretend you're happy and calm; always make people laugh… it would distract them from the real pain you were feeling. "Personally, I would have preferred if you had killed me straight away rather than make me suffer through your mind-numbingly boring speech."

It wasn't a good idea to infuriate a murderer who had their weapon aimed at you.

Rookwood twirled his wand gracefully. George would have made another snarky comment asking if the older man could teach him how to do that because he'd spent many bored Potions lessons trying to master the graceful wand twirl… but that was probably a bad idea.

"No," the Death Eater continued. "I'm not going to give you the sweet release of death. That would be too kind, and as you can probably already tell… I'm not a kind man. I'm going to use a curse which causes more pain than the cruciatus curse, a curse which will bring you so close to death but never kill you… a curse which will reduce you to a begging, snivelling mess by the end."

It felt like George's heart was in his throat. What could possibly be worse than the cruciatus? Sectumsempra? That was the only spell he could think of which felt anything like the torture curse, but even then, it wasn't enough to make him want to beg for death. He'd already been through it once before, surely it couldn't be worse the second time?

"You see," Rookwood murmured with a dramatic pause that seemed to last a lifetime. "I spent over five years working in the Department of Mysteries. I know all their darkest secrets, all the experiments they were doing in the late 70s, all the spells they were creating, and this one… well, I'm very proud of this curse as it's my own invention. I never got to test it properly because it was 'inhumane to subject any being to such immense pain'… but I suppose you can be my test subject. I'm curious, after all these years, to see how it works."

George felt like a defenceless lab rat, just waiting for the pain which would come, knowing there was nothing he could do about it and no way he could protect himself.

"Say your last goodbyes," the Death Eater taunted, but he didn't even give him two seconds to prepare himself. "Separo anima," he hissed, and after those two words George heard nothing else.

It felt like he was dying.

This was a thousand times worse than the cruciatus curse; it was worse than when he had seen his identical twin lying dead on the Great Hall floor. It was unimaginable pain, so bad that he couldn't see, hear or even feel the ground underneath him. There were hundreds of dementors sucking his soul out and a 300-pound sumo wrestler was crushing his ribs while a steak knife was being driven into his skull over and over again and he was being strangled to death and he couldn't breathe and he tried to scream but all sound refused to come out –

The high-pitched ringing sound from earlier had returned in full force but so, so much worse and it was a screeching hellish sound that felt like it would never end. He covered his ears in pain and slammed his head against the hard ground even though he couldn't feel the ground anymore and he hit his head harder wishing it would stop, would it ever stop, can I just die, please let me die.

Was there blood on his head, in his hair?

He couldn't tell.

There was blood everywhere, on his hands, in the sky, on the trees, in his eyes, dripping from that man's nose – who was that man?

If George could hear he would have heard himself make a sound which was barely human at all. It was a mix between a whimper, a groan and a strangled scream which would make even Voldemort himself shed a tear.

Everything was spinning and he felt like he might vomit, faint, or just scream in pain.

I'm dying, I'm dying, I'm dying.

A stake was repeatedly being driven into his chest and he tried to scream but it just came out as another breathless whimper. The bones in his body were breaking over and over again and his heart was being torn in two, then ripped apart more and more until the blood soaked his chest.

His ear throbbed and sent waves of immeasurable agony through his head.

The only thought that ran through his mind was Fred, Fred, Fred.

But who was Fred?

He was so cold.

The snow seeped into his clothes, soaking his back and leaving him shivering. And he didn't even know anymore if he was shaking from the biting cold or from his anguish. Pure snowflakes drifted down onto his eyelashes and rested on his freezing hands, coating him in a thin blanket of winter. It was beautiful.

He was dying, but death was beautiful.

George hardly felt anything anymore, numb from the pain and the cold.

Was that his name? George?

It was peaceful. Death hurt so, so bad, but at least now it was starting to hurt less. Maybe the end was near… maybe he could see his brother soon. He couldn't remember his brother but all he knew was that he had one he needed to see again… and the word "brother" felt warm, homely and safe. He would be safe with his brother.

The sky looked suddenly darker than it had been before, and his vision was tinted red, making the falling snow look like bloody crystals.

His ear was bleeding. He could feel the blood pouring down the side of his head, laying to rest in a sickening scarlet puddle on the ground. The wound felt like it had reopened again but the pain was no longer bothering him as he felt numbness slowly approaching…

His last thought was why is it snowing in May–?

Footsteps approached. They seemed incredibly loud to his ears and crunched in the snow, coming closer and closer.

Not able to look up and see who it was, he slipped into the sweet relief of unconsciousness.

A/N: yeah, sorry for that cliffhanger too..

Because of this chapter, I've decided to change the rating for this story from teen to mature. I mean it's pretty angsty, it has some very adult themes like suicide and there's graphic scenes (mostly blood, there won't be any smut though so sorry if that disappoints you lmao).

Also, I had this chapter finished 3 months ago but completely forgot to post it to . Sorry to the 3 people who actually read this and might have been looking forward to an update. Things have been pretty crazy recently but I finally have time to write. So hopefully there'll be another chapter up within a week? I know I promised weekly updates at the start, then it turned into monthly updates. But now it's just whenever-I-have-time updates! I'll try my best to write at least a chapter a month though, and sorry it takes so long, really. I hope you do enjoy the chapters when they come though. :)

Reviews and favourites are very much appreciated, and thanks very much to the one person who commented so far! Constructive criticism would be great too, if you spotted any spelling/grammar mistakes then please do point it out!

Bye until 2019 or something, please don't expect too much from me lol

- Kathleen