Secrets Unknown

Chapter 13: "And when I sleep I dream"

Warning: Gory and disturbing content

Once again George's night was filled with restless and disturbing dreams. He woke repeatedly during the night, forgetting instantly what the dreams had been about, only knowing they had been some of the most scary experiences of his life. When finally waking to find sunlight streaming through the curtains over Angelina's bed, he recalled the last dream he had.

Once again he had been in his flat, this time lying casually on the couch in the little living room. Upon hearing a strangled cry from Fred's room, he leapt off the couch and tried to run toward the sound but tripped. Stumbling to his feet, half running half crawling he finally reached Fred's room and pushed the door open. Fred sat on the floor, slumped against the side of his bed, eyes closed and whispering something George could not make out. George's stomach dropped as he noticed what had caused his twin to cry out. Three gashes on each wrist. Six deep and bleeding gashes, each gash more hurriedly done than the last, the first a long and precise cut about two inches long. George rushed to his twin's side, trying in vain to find a cloth of some sort to stop the bleeding but everything he reached for disappeared as soon as he touched it. Reaching for his wand did nothing too, for even though he could feel its weight in the back pocket of his jeans, he could not find it. Desperate, George pressed his bare hands against the wounds, applying as much pressure as he could. Leaning in toward his brother, George said as loudly and as clearly as he could, "Fred? Can you hear me?"

Expecting Fred not to answer, George jumped as Fred opened his eyes and looked at him clearly, "Of course I can hear you, you pillock, there is no need to yell."

George was shocked, "How can you-, what are you-, what have you done?!" he finally managed to get out.

Fred looked confused, "What do you mean?"

The blood was escaping through George's fingers and running down his arms and onto the carpet below and he began to panic.

"Please, Fred," George tried to lift his brother, "I have to get you to a hospital."

Fred pulled his arm away and blood spurted even more violently from his wounds. "Why in the world would I need a hospital?" he asked, obviously annoyed at being manhandled.

George's heart pounded in his ears, he could feel bile rising from his stomach to his throat. The situation and the sight of so much blood was making him feel sick to his stomach. Trying desperately to raise Fred off the floor, his brother resisted just as much as George tried.

"George!" Fred tried to get George's attention but George was far too panicked to listen.

"George," Fred said again, "I'm not the one who needs a hospital!"

George stopped trying to pull Fred into a standing position and stared at his brother's wrists where the bleeding had stopped and scars had formed where cuts previously lay.

"How…How did they stop…?"

Fred shook his head, "You're mental, bro," he said pointing to his head with one scarred arm, "you are the one who needs medical attention. Look." Fred calmly pointed to George's wrists where blood was spilling from them at an alarming rate.

"Oh, shit," George whispered as he slumped to the floor.

"It's okay, George," Fred's voice filtered through the growing darkness, "It will be the best thing you could ever do. I needed to do it."

George woke with a start and lay sweating beneath the bed covers, which he had tangled around his limbs. He looked around frantically at his surroundings and down at his own arms which, he was relieved to see, were free of any kind of wound, save for a tiny scar which remained from when his older brother Charlie had pushed him off his toy broomstick when he was four. Everyone had always joked that the scar would be the only thing that could tell the twins apart until three months later, in an accident involving a rather vicious Garden Gnome, Fred received a scar in almost the exact same place on his arm. George sighed to himself as he realised that he and his twin really had shared absolutely everything in their shared lifetime. George glanced at the clock on the wall, trying to wind down from the terrifying experience of the nightmare he had just had. It was only seven thirty and already Angelina had risen. From the sound of the kitchen downstairs, so had a lot of the others of the Weasely family. Eager for these disturbing thoughts and dreams not to disrupt the rest of his life, George quickly dressed and went downstairs for breakfast.

As he entered the kitchen, he observed just how fast the Weasely family had moved past the tragic loss of one of its members and attempted to rebuild their lives as they knew them before. His mother stood at the stove cooking copious amounts of porridge for everyone, Angelina and Hermione at her side, chatting about this-and-that and using their wands to chop up pieces of fruit from the garden. His father had already left, Ron told him, to help out with some emergency at the Ministry of Magic. Ginny quarrelled with Charlie about something, and Percy sat reading the newspaper out loud to anyone who would listen. George was scornful at their behaviour, both appalled at and envious of their ability to leave the tragedy behind them. He tried to content himself with the idea that they were hurting just as much as he was but they chose not to show it, but as much as he tried, he couldn't convince himself that they had each had a dream about blood gushing from Fred's wrists the night before. Angelina smiled and said good morning, as did the rest of the family, but George could not believe that they felt no sadness or torment, the same as he did.

After breakfast, his mother asked him to go to the market to get some ingredients for dinner and, eager to get out of the house for a while, he agreed, asking Angelina if she wanted to join him.

Living near a muggle village, George had two options of where to go to buy the food. There was a small market in the heart of the nearby village, almost a half an hour away by car, or there was a 10 second "floo-powder trip" to Diagon Alley. He opted for the former of the choices, unwilling to bump into any well-wishers of his brothers demise.

George had no intention of bringing last nights dream into the conversation, yet found it difficult not to when Angelina brought up the subject of why he was thrashing around in his sheets during the night.

George sighed, "Ah, just a bad dream."

"What about?" Angelina enquired casually.

George took his eyes off the road for a second to glance at her and she looked nonchalantly out of the window. George shook his head, "You don't want to know, Ange."

The rest of the car trip was fairly uneventful. Things were still a little uncomfortable from the previous afternoons explosions and George apologised a few times before he felt better about what he had said. Angelina, once again, told him not to worry about anything but George ignored her advice and worried all he wanted. Once at the market, Angelina asked him again what his dream had been about and, again, he told her she didn't want to know. This seemed to satisfy her for a little while but in the middle of choosing an eggplant, she spoke up.

"I doubt your dreams are any different to mine, George."

George felt the same way but rather than agreeing with her he just shrugged his shoulders and reached for yet another of the purple vegetables.

"I've had them almost every night." Angelina pressed.

"Are eggplants supposed to have speckles on them?" George wondered out loud, trying to change the subject.

"I know you don't want to talk about it, George." Angelina snapped. "But I do."

George sighed, "Do we have to?"

Angelina narrowed her eyes at him, "No, we don't have to, but it would be helpful for me, and I think it would be helpful for you, too!"

The image of Fred's wrists dripping in blood, and then his own, immediately sprang to George's mind and he wondered if maybe it wouldn't hurt to talk about it a little.

"Okay," George agreed, "When we get home."

Angelina sat in subdued silence as the news of George's distressing dream settled in her mind. Just as the image of Fred's self mutilation haunted George's mind, so did it now stick in Angelina's mind almost as real as it would be had she been there to see it herself.

"He killed himself but slitting his wrists?" She asked in a whisper.

George shook his head, "No, that's the weird part."

"How…How did he do it then?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, "You said you didn't want to know."

"I know I didn't," Angelina lowered her eyes to the floor and blinked her long dark lashes. Then she looked back up at George, "but I feel like I should know now."

George looked at her for a moment, searching her face for any signs of regret to this statement before answering, "Medication."

"Medication?" Angelina didn't understand, "What medication was he on?"

"Anti-depressants, apparently. He got them from St Mungo's. Dad, uh, went in there after Fred was…found. Um," he steadied his voice and continued, "we found prescription medication in his room next to him and…just kinda filled in the rest…" his voice trailed off.

Angelina said nothing. She felt she owed it to her boyfriend to know how he had died but nothing could have prepared her for the feeling of actually knowing the truth.

"Hey," George looked her in the eye, "It's okay, Ange."

Angelina nodded and leaned back against the wall. Looking out the window she saw Ginny, Ron and Hermione laughing and playing around with their broomsticks. She had so many memories with them, they reminded her of Hogwarts. Thinking about Hogwarts reminded her of the first time she and Fred had kissed. The first time she had snuck into the boys' dorm just to sleep next to him. And the first time he had told her that he loved her more than he thought he could ever love anyone. Now the only memories of him that occupied her mind were the startling dreams she had at night and the memory that haunted her every waking minute of the way she felt when she received the news that Fred had hated his life so much that he felt the need to end it.