Chapter 2

Fred had thought that he had seen a shadow out of the corner of his eye. It was stupid of him not to have leapt up before he heard the scream. Someone could have been saved. But it was too late for regrets. It was always too late for regrets; they always caused more pain. So he cleared his mind, and sprinted as fast as he could toward where he thought that the scream had come from.

He wasn't the only person with this idea. He never was. Every time there was a scream, a threat, a death, the entire camp came running. This went against all logic that Fred had known before and he took it as a familiar fact now.

He hadn't thought that the site would be so easy to find. It usually took at least a few minutes to put the marker up. But the night was clear. Perhaps it was easier. Fred felt a chill move up his spine before he could see it. Then the night was bright green.

Fred didn't want to look up to see it. He didn't need to; he just followed the herd of people that had stopped in front of a single tent. Just one. Inside, Fred knew that he should be horrified. But instead, he was happy. He was overjoyed that it was one tent. Just one tent. Two years ago, he would have been ashamed at himself.

The hoard of people didn't part like the red sea this time. Fred pushed and shoved his way to the front of the crowd, so that he could see the tent. The strangest thing was that nothing looked disturbed. A tent flap moved in the gentle breeze, and outside there was a little stuffed toy dropped on the ground, just waiting for the small child to come to pick it up.

Inside, however, was a different story. On the ground in the kitchen area, laid the body of the woman who might have been known as Patricia Simpson. Two years ago, Fred might have had hope that she was still alive. But now he was older, an adult borne into wartime, and he saw no life in her pale face or her unnaturally bent limbs. The faint green light that was coming through the canvas threw an eerie light over her, and he could see her wand still clutched between her fingers. It was all so familiar.

Fred turned to the other occupant of the tent. He was a middle-aged man. That was all that Fred noted, and all that he hoped to remember. In his arms was clutched a small child. His head was bent, and audible sobs were heard. The child's wrist turned oddly, and it's head slumped onto the man's shoulder. Fred could see that it was a little girl. The man had shut her eyes, but he could still tell that it was the same girl that he had hefted into his arms earlier. It was the same girl that had reached for Ptolemy, and never quite got him.

Fred took a deep breath and held it in as he turned away from the scene. No emotion. A wall. The flap dropped behind him as he walked heavily out of the tent. The crowd shushed, and Fred clenched his jaw before he spoke. "Two." He told them. That was all that he needed to say for the crowd to grow loud and spitting angry. At every death, the same man challenged his authority. The man strode forward.

"You aren't even going to do anything?" The man who might have been called Seamus bellowed at him. "I'm going to march into their camp and kill two of them!" He raised his fist, and the camp descended into total and complete anarchy. Witches and Wizards yelled and screamed obscenities, curses, threats to the Death Eaters. It wasn't new to Fred. He handled it like he handled it every other time.

Fred twisted his strong fingers into the shoulders of Seamus's robes and pulled him forward until they were nearly nose to nose. He looked this one in the eye. He looked him in the eye every time. "You and what army?" He shouted, and the mob quieted. "You are nothing to them! They would kill you in a moment. Or worse yet, torture you for information!" He shook this man hard, hoping to bring some sense into him. But it never helped. "Don't you understand? You could kill us all!"

He let the man go, pushing him back into the arms of another. With that, the crowd was mostly quiet. He had asserted his leadership, and now he had to prove it.

A blonde girl was staring at the tent, petrified by fear. Fred knew that she looked familiar—the girl who had just been sent to their camp. He walked up to her.

"I need you to do something." Fred told her quietly. "You're half-muggle, right?"

The blonde bit her lip and looked up at him, but he refused to meet her eye. "Yes." She told him quietly.

Fred lowered his voice. "Put on your muggle clothes, and then report to Brocklehurst. She'll portkey you to London, do you understand?" The girl looked at him blankly, he didn't need to see her to feel her stare. She had blanched suddenly. He continued. "Then travel two blocks east, to Smith Avenue, okay?" The girl began to shake. He put his hand on her shoulder and finally met her gaze. "There is a blue brick house there. Very old looking. Press the buzzer, and man will answer. Tell him that 'Weeds grow in the country.' Got it?"

Underneath his hand the girl still shook and gave no sign that she understood his words. He bent down a little, took a breath, and repeated. "This is very important. Do you understand?" There was the smallest of nods before she abruptly turned and fled toward her tent.

With the intention of heading back toward the tent that had been attacked, he took the long way around it. There were many curse-setters working on the damaged hexes and curses, and it didn't look as if they would have to fear another attack that night.

It was, without a doubt, the two years in the woods on high alert that allowed Fred to hear the running footsteps behind him. It was no Death Eater, there were too many people. "What do you want?" He called, his strides lengthening.

The person jogged faster, and there was a moment before they replied. "I'm half-muggle, Fred." His breath caught in his throat, and he forced himself to keep walking around the serried of tents. But the person kept up.

"Fred, you know that I'm half muggle. You've known for ages." She just kept going. She just didn't know when to stop. She never knew when to stop. "Why didn't you send me, Fred? I was standing right next to her. You knew that Hannah was scared. I'm not scared. I could have done the job. Why didn't you send me?"

Because you weren't scared, Fred thought, but didn't say. Because fear keeps you alive. He needed her alive. He was quiet, but she kept pestering him. She always did.

"Well? Why not, Fred?" She demanded. He stopped, they were in front of the tent. The crowd had dissipated, and there was only a few stragglers roaming around who hadn't been assigned jobs yet. He had had enough.

Fred turned on his heel to face her. Avoiding her gaze, he said in a deadly quiet voice, "You were a chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Most of the Death Eaters are Slytherins. They would have recognized you in a second." He was happy with this answer. It made sense. It concealed everything.

As he turned to walk away, he thought that he caught a grim smile on her face. He admitted to himself that he may have been imagining it. What he knew that he had seen, however, was her stooping down to pick up the stuffed animal; a deep look of sadness and regret on her face. They were emotions that he longed to reflect on his own. He knew that he wasn't supposed to see that, but knew immediately that it wasn't his imagination.