Author's Note: Written for QLFC round 12. Write a Harry Potter crossover with a TV show, so I figured I'd continue this HP/Supernatural crossover! This was an experiment. Pretty sure it failed. A combination of that and my muse and I currently not being on speaking terms, I suppose. I chose to go with Grim rather than Hellhound because George wouldn't know to call it a Hellhound, as it would most closely resemble what they would know as a Grim.

NOTE: In lieu of everything I have going on, and the fact that it hasn't seemed to be that popular anyway, I've decided to shelf this. I am still in love with chapter one, so I'll leave this up, but I don't plan on continuing the multi-chapter story unless I can clear some of my other obligations.

10 years later...

I'm not sure how I got here, or even where here is, but the world has succumb to darkness. Not just around me but inside of me, too. I can feel it, like jolts of electricity. The darkness sparks through my veins, raising the hair along my arms and neck.

Something's coming.

Without reason, unease is budding inside me, spiking my heart rate and blossoming into a cold sweat. I can't see it, but I know it's out there. I fumble for my wand, finally managing to tug it from my pocket despite my slick palms.

"Lumos," I whisper, but like everything else, the warm, white light dissolves into the blackness just beyond my feet.

The ground squishes under my trainers, and I move forward to the sound of steady squelching. I'm in a forest, or at least I assume so as I pass from one gnarled tree trunk to another. It's as if I'm the only creature alive in these woods, and I wish that were true, but there's something niggling in the back of my mind warning me to the contrary.

I'm being watched.

I can feel the adrenaline now, making my skin itch and my muscles twitch, and I pick up the pace accordingly. My foot catches, gripped tight by muck, and I abandon my trainer there, grimacing as my sock foot squishes into the ground. I swallow, mouth parched and dry, and push on regardless.

The night is growling.

It's a deep, guttural sound that surrounds me, blending in all directions and morphing into a wall of yips and snarls. I whirl around—to the left, to the right. Where is it coming from? Ahead? I aim my wand in that direction, but nothing can penetrate the blackness.

The barking intensifies, taunting me like laughter, and I pivot around trying to find the beast. Branches snap to my right, and I'm greeted by fiendfyre eyes that scorch the night.

My blood ices in my veins.

My mind screams to run, but my legs refuse to comply. I'm barely aware as my grip relaxes and my wand slips from my grasp. All I can focus on are red eyes and the deep-throated growl.

Before I can react, something is barreling into me, knocking me down and pinning me against the ground. I try to scream as teeth sink into my shoulder, grazing bone, but the pain steals my voice and it comes out as little more than a gasp and a groan. The scream comes finally as claws shred the flesh along my legs, and my whole body is afire.

There is no escape—I know that—so I'm left kicking blindly at the dog-like creature over me as I gag on its hot, fetid breath.

I'm still flailing as the darkness fades to a dimly-lit room, gray with pre-dawn light. My movements slow as I become aware that something's changed. This isn't the forest anymore, so where am I?

"George? George! Oh, not again."

A familiar face appears, peeking over the edge of the bed at me, eyebrows knitted and worry creasing her forehead. A dream. That's all it was. The realization doesn't make me feel any better, though.

"It's alright, Ali. You should go back to bed. I'm just fine," I tell her as I pick myself up off the floor, flashing her a smile like that'll convince her. Merlin, the woman isn't stupid, and I know from the doubt in her eyes that she doesn't believe me. Who could blame her? This is the third night that I've woken her up just before dawn.

"Are you coming back to bed?" she asks, but the way she settles into the middle of the mattress tells me she already knows my answer.

I glance at the clock—6:39. I shake my head, sweeping my sweat-stained hair out of my face.

"Told Fred I'd meet him at 7:30 to to discuss some business. Might as well get ready and go."

Her eyes are already closed as I lean over to kiss her, and she mutters something unintelligible as she settles in to sleep. I pause, studying the way the first tendrils of light illuminate her face. She's come a long way from the Gryffindor Chaser who joined Dumbledore's Army and faced off against Voldemort and his followers, but she never lost that strength. Whatever the outcome, I know she'll be just fine.

I take a cold shower because the hot water reminds me too much of the searing pain in my dreams, and it's not an experience I care to relive. I begin my daily routine like a robot, going through the comfortable, familiar motions, but as I wipe the steam from the mirror for my daily shave, I pause to inspect my reflection.

It hardly seems like ten years already since I dragged my feet all the way home, stomach churning and fluttering as I contemplated one excuse after another for how Fred came back from the dead. I didn't even need any of them; no one seemed to recall his death except for me. Life had carried on like he was never even gone.

But it has been ten years, exactly. I'm still "holey" as ever. There have been offers to attempt to regrow the ear, but I've turned them all down. Sure puts a damper on playing "which twin am I," but I like the daily reminder of everything we went through. I've gained both weight and wrinkles in the meantime, and dark circles seem almost a permanent feature thanks to a decades' worth of late nights.

I scratch my arm absentmindedly as I turn away from the mirror and head to the fireplace. I'm no fool. I know what the incessant itch on my arm and inescapable nightmares mean. I made a promise, one that I'd make again in a heartbeat, and I don't regret the ten years I've spent with my brother. But I'm a bloody wizard, for Merlin's sake, and they're batty as Trelawney if they think I'll go without a fight.

"1301 Phoenix Court," I tell the green flames as I toss the powder into the fire.

My stomach turns with the sudden whoosh and full stop of Floo travel, but my nerves are banished when I catch sight of the pudgy toddler tottering around the living room. He pauses as I step out of the fireplace.

"Daddy?" he asks, finger stuck in the side of his mouth slurring his words.

"Nah, I'm the better-looking twin."

I bend down and scoop him into a hug, his arms circling my neck as he laughs and says, "Uncle George!"

"Someone here, Freddie?" a voice calls from the other room and Freddie runs after it, disappearing through the doorway. A minute later, Fred appears holding him in his arms. "You're here early," he says with a smile.

"Uncle George says he's better looking," Freddie says through the finger he's chewing on.

"And you've been filling my son's head with rubbish. Everyone knows I'm better looking. Isn't that right, honey?"

Angie pokes her head around the door frame, glancing first at her husband, then at me, and back to her husband.

"Mm-hmm, whatever you say, dear. You want some breakfast, George?"

"No thanks, already ate," I lie. My stomach is tied in so many knots that I'm not sure I'll be able to eat for a full week, if I even make it that long. "How's little Roxy doing?"

"Just about ready to come out, I hope." Angie laughs as she rubs her belly. "She insists on sticking her feet through my ribs. Can't convince her otherwise."

"Think I can borrow your husband for a while?"

"Go on, take him. C'mon, Freddie, let's let the boys work."

Fred relinquishes his son, and we lock ourselves in his home office. He's already taken the liberty of spreading maps and charts out on the table, and just the sight of it gives me a headache. We've been intending to expand Weasley's Wizard Wheezes to other countries, but it's been his project, one he's happy to spearhead. Me, I prefer overseeing employees and coming up with new products. I'd rather sit through another potions class than deal with all this legal stuff and business deals.

I sink into a chair, and Fred immediately launches into his spiel. I try to focus, but the itching in my arm is driving me crazy and there's some sort of commotion outside and...

"George?"

"Hm?" I suddenly become aware that Fred's paused, leaning over his table, looking at me from under raised eyebrows.

"You've drifted off again. You're hopeless, you know? What would you do without me?"

"Lose my mind, I suppose."

"George, you're doing it again."

"What?"

He nods his head toward my arm, and I realize that I'm scratching at it again, leaving it red around the mark. I didn't even notice what I was doing, but the itching is infuriating now and hard to ignore.

"I don't even know why you got that thing in the first place. I mean, if you really wanted to be different wasn't the ear enough?"

"The ear wasn't exactly my choice. Besides, you can't tell me you've never done something stupid just because you could."

"My wife's pregnant with my second child. 'Course I can't say that. But why that? I mean, it's just a silly kid's story Mum used to read us."

I trace the shape with my eyes—a line inside a triangle inside a circle. I have rehearsed this response for ten years now, but that doesn't make it any easier.

"Yeah, but remember what the story meant? The Master of Death. That's us, sorta, isn't it? I mean, we made it through the war, didn't we? Not everyone was that lucky."

I keep remembering the way Fred looked there, laid out on the floor of the Great Hall, with my knees buckling under me and the world spinning, and all I could think was that it must be a horrible nightmare that I would wake up from because I couldn't possibly live without him. Even now, the panic is real.

Fred sighs, pushing some papers aside so he can take a seat on the edge of the table.

"What's up, Georgie? You OK? You've been a bit off lately, and Ali tells me you haven't been sleeping well lately."

"Yeah, it's nothing, I just...do you hear that?"

There's something happening outside, and I heard the noise before, but I dismissed it. It's closer now, and something about it is familiar.

"I don't hear anything."

Fred laughs nervously, and I know by his knitted brows that he's just trying to hide his concern for me. I'm worried now, too, because I've realized what the sound is: yipping. Somewhere, a dog is barking and growling, and I understand why he can't hear it. It's coming for me. But not here. It can't happen here.

"You know what, Fred?" I stand up quickly, knocking the chair back, but I catch it before it hits the floor and right it again. "I'm just, uh, tired. Feeling a bit...under the weather. I think I'll go lay down for a bit, see if I can get some rest."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea."

I'm already at the door before he can object, and the barks outside are getting louder. I'm running out of time.

"Hey, George?"

My gut wrenches into knots as I turn back and see the worry in his face.

"Take care of yourself, will you?"

"Always."

I close the door on my way out and pause against it for a moment. I can hear Angie and Freddie in the kitchen, and I consider going by Floo. But no, that won't work. Wherever I go, this thing will find me. I don't want other people to get tangled up in my mess, however it ends. So I shut my eyes and brace myself for the nausea of the world distorting around me as I Apparate.

I come out in a meadow somewhere. I'm not sure exactly where, though I remember the meadow well enough. I ended up here once when I Apparated too hastily, and it took me forever to get back home, even with magic. That reassures me that it's far enough from civilization. More so, since it's a field, I can see what I'm up against.

It's only a matter of minutes before the beast—whatever it is—is back on my trail. I can hear it in the distance, and I pull my wand from my pocket and hunker down in the grass, pretending like my palms aren't slick, the grass doesn't tickle my skin, and my bloody forearm doesn't itch.

The beast stops a short distance away, and I can see those fiery eyes burning even in the daytime. I realize my mistake. I can see it, sure, but now it can see me, too, and I feel its eyes boring through me. But at least I know what I'm up against now. It's a Grim—chest-high, short-haired, and bared fangs. I don't doubt it has matching mammoth paws and razor claws to boot, but I don't plan on getting close enough to find out.

It barrels towards me, and I push off the ground, running the opposite direction. I can hear it behind me, paws thundering against the dirt, grass rustling as it tears through it. I don't dare look behind me, but I don't need to. It's close. Too close. I need a plan, an actual one. One that doesn't end with me fileted or running for Merlin knows how long.

I hurl spells behind me, but none of them do the trick. It dodges them easily, breaking through every protective barrier I cast like they're simple spider webs. How would someone kill a Grim? The lore was hokum, as far as I was concerned, every bit as fake as Seers like Trelawney, but now I wish I had paid more attention. It won't do me a bit of good now.

I slide across a patch of mud and break to the left, skirting the fast-approaching forest. I'm running out of meadow, and the last thing I want is to enter the trees. It reminds me too much of my nightmare, too much of bone-breaking jaws and flesh-ripping claws.

The forest looms just ahead. I have nowhere left to run but into the trees, and everything in me is screaming not to. My lungs burn, side throbbing with each gasping breath, and my hand is clutching my wand so tight that my fingers are numb. And every second the Grim gets closer. I have no choice; I have to enter the trees.

Before I can get there, though, my foot snags and I'm falling, reaching for something—anything—to grab on to. My hand closes on air. I hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of me. My ankle is throbbing and my lungs feel like someone's just used them for punching practice, but I manage to roll onto my back just the same.

The sun is obscured, and for a brief second all I can see is black. I can remember the crunch of my bones from my dream, the feel of my flesh tearing open along the length of my legs. That's all the motivation I need. I bury my head in the crook of my arm as I point my wand upward.

"Confringo!"

There's a flash and an intense heat, and then there's gooey bits of Grim raining down on me. My stomach turns as I brush clumps of flesh off me, fighting back the bile that's rising in my throat as I sit up. The Grim's gone, and I'm surrounded by silence. No more are coming after me. Not yet, at least.

I still have no idea how to kill a Grim, but explosions felt like a safe bet. I'm not convinced that it's dead—even if it is, more will come, I'm sure of it—but it's bought me some time, at least.

"S-sc-scourgify," I choke out, unable to suppress the quiver of my voice as I clean myself off. My whole body is still trembling as I manage to gain my feet, my skin itching with adrenaline.

I look around one last time at the blood-stained grass just to convince myself that it's over for now. This is a victory, even if it's a small one. At least now I know that they can be fought. I know I'll lose, tomorrow or the day after or a week from now, but even as I itch at the mark that's burning on my forearm, it's a reminder.

Take care of yourself, will you?

I will continue to fight, because I have something worth fighting for.