QLFC Season 10 Round 9: I'll stay with you
Main prompt: Fred and George
Additional prompt:
1. [Spell] Aguamenti
2. [Word] Insane
3. [Song] With you by Michael Schulte
Word count: 2060
A/N: Thank you Bellwhether2.0 and Blitzace for beta reading!
Warning: Coercion and compulsion, mental institution and insanity, delusions and hallucinations, twinless twin and twinless grief, self-harm, torture and pain, lacerations and bleeding, gore and death, foul language, psuedo-necromancy.
"Did… have… administer… again?"
"Yes… bring… in."
George Weasley blinked blearily and tiredly, and repeatedly as he tried to keep his eyes open. He squinted, he stared… yet, he was still looking unseeingly at the unknown in front of him. Everything was a blurry mess of white, and words were coming at him as a garbled mess of sounds. He shook his head - he immediately regretted it because his entire world toppled over harshly - and a scream ripped out of his throat; but how strange that there was no roaring sound?
"It… begins… sleep."
Sleep..? Sleep sounded good. He had not realised he was tired. His aching body was quickly weakening, and his tensed muscles were swiftly relaxing. Was he tense? Why was he even tense? Did it matter? Not really; especially not when he inherently needed the rest.
"George, don't sleep... Stay awake... "
George felt his sore and dry eyes flutter close and his consciousness slipping away. Everything around him was dark, quiet and still, except for the soft whirring of the overhead fan. He groaned softly and raspily as he burrowed deeper into the soft sheets beneath him. His fingers clenched and unclenched fistfuls of the sheet as he felt his drool leaking gently out of the corner of his lips.
"George..?"
George felt his lips slowly curling into a smile as he hummed softly in response. It was a faraway sound but it was a familiar voice. It was a very familiar sound that sounded lovely and made his heart beat gently. Who was it? George was not fully certain he knew but he found safety and security in that sound. He burrowed deeper into the soft sheets, entangling his body in it as he giggled, "You won't find me!"
George laughed hoarsely in between rough, violent coughs. Pity, his throat was hurting terribly because… why did his throat hurt? Anytime now, there would be the light laughter that replied to him. A face from a faraway dream would meet his eyes. The manifestation of his dreams and loneliness would appear. Anytime now, the one born to be with him from way before he had developed a mature consciousness would welcome his return to the land of the awake and living.
"Hey George, do you hear me? Can you hear me?"
"You're my dreams made flesh," George whispered as he braced himself for the pillow to hit him. It was the way the manifestation of his dreams would- No! George growled as he thrashed against the sheets to free himself. It was not his dreams but his twin who would wake him by playfully hitting him with a pillow. He had a twin. He was born with a twin. His twin was real, was he not? His twin was not a figment of his imaginations. His twin was not a mere manifestation of his dreams and loneliness. His twin had a name!
"George, don't you remember me?"
Bal… ford? Was it Balford? No, it did not sound right. Manford? No. Alfred? No, but it sounded like it. Al? No... Fred?
"Fred!" George screamed as his eyes snapped open and he tore the sheets off his body. "Fred. That was his name! How could I forget?"
"I wonder about that too."
George turned and found himself staring at his lookalike - albeit a more carefree, smiling lookalike. "Fred…" George whispered as he stumbled off his bed and approached Fred with his arms outstretched. "You're here…" When he wrapped his arms around his twin, he took the chance to squeeze his brother and take a deep sniff. "Oh Fred," he sighed at the familiar scent, "I thought I'd never see you again…"
"As if I'd ever leave you," Fred sighed as he patted George's back awkwardly. "I'm your twin. I'll never leave you. We belong together. Always."
"Always. Forever," George confirmed softly and he withdrew from the hug just enough to cup Fred's cheeks. "You're cold."
"When your room is cold like the arctic, everything feels cold," Fred teased as he grinned wolfishly. "You've been asleep for so long. It's already night. Are you that tired?"
"I don't know…" George whispered as he returned to his bed and stared at his feet. "I feel… I feel like I've been hit by a truck… many times."
"Quidditch practice must've been too rough for you," Fred teased as he tilted his head and stared at George. "It's no wonder you spent half the day in bed."
George looked up and frowned. Had he been asleep for that long? Was he playing Quidditch before he slept? "Maybe," he agreed softly as he tried to recall to no avail. He could not remember anything except he had been struggling to remember Fred's name… but Fred was his twin. Fred would not lie and trick him. Fred was more than just his brother. His entire life, from the day he was conceived until today, was spent with Fred.
"I didn't know you still kept the toy train set…"
George looked from Fred to the foot of his bed. There, on the floor, was their childhood toy. It was Bill's but he had outgrown it and… Fred had a fascination for trains. That, by default, meant that George liked trains too. After all, Fred was his older twin so Fred was naturally the spokesperson for both of them. They were twins, so… whatever Fred liked, he liked it too.
"It's special," George answered as he left his bed to crouch on the floor and move the trains. "You liked it. We liked it."
"Did I?" Fred challenged sharply and George looked up in surprise. It was very rare for Fred to use such a sharp tone with him.
"I'm sorry. I always thought-"
"Don't sweat it, little George," Fred grinned as he dismissed the apology. "It doesn't matter."
George watched Fred move from the door to the other side of the room where there was a small study table in the corner. "Do you want to play a game?" Fred asked as he grinned widely as he presented two black cups.
"I guess?" George answered tiredly as he abandoned his trains to stand beside Fred at the table. "What do we play?"
"A game of luck," Fred answered as his eyes twinkled. "There's two cups: only one has the butterbeer. Whoever gets the butterbeer wins the game."
"What's in the other?" George asked as he looked at the cups. They were too dark to see the contents.
"A surprise," Fred answered easily as he lifted both cups to George, "take your pick."
As George chose one, he smiled a little. He knew the smell of butterbeer and in his cup was definitely butterbeer. "On three!" The brothers raised the cup, closed their eyes, counted to three and swallowed their drinks at the same time.
Immediately, George heard violent heaving and coughing and his eyes snapped open to stare down Fred who was lying on his floor.
Fred had clawed ruthlessly at his throat. His eyes wild and desperate as he slithered on the floor. "Water… Water!" he begged as his throat began bleeding from the violent scratches. "I need water! Help me! Water!"
George swiped a wand from the table, gathered Fred in his arms and shouted, "Aguamenti!" As he waited for the torrent of water, Fred had begun crying and begging for help and water. "Stop scratching, Fred! You'll bleed to death!" George warned harshly as he battled with the thrashing Fred. "I can't lose you! Aguamenti!"
Everytime Fred's hands came close to his throat, George batted them away as he cast whatever meagre healing spells he knew while he waited for all of his spells to take effect... however, none of his spells seemed to work. The water was still not conjured and Fred's lacerations were still bleeding freely.
"Damn it! Aguamenti! Aguamenti!" George screamed repeatedly as Fred clawed at himself and bit his tongue in the midst of his begging. "Aguamenti! Come on, damn it! Aguamenti! AGUAMENTI!"
After a while - George had no idea how long he held his twin and screamed Aguamenti - Fred had stopped thrashing against him. Fred had stopped begging and crying. Fred had stopped… and George heard himself screaming as he jumped on his bed and wrapped his sheets around him. He shut his eyes tightly as he screamed loudly even as sleepiness began to envelop him.
George had been sure he held Fred with a mangled neck. His senses had not deceived him. He had heard Fred. He had smelt Fred. He had felt Fred. "So why… do you look so... dull?" he slurred as his eyes fluttered close.
"You'll be safe here. Sleep, George. I'll always watch over you."
"I'm so sorry. Don't leave me, Fred. Come back," George murmured sleepily as he patted the empty spot beside him. "Stay Fred. Stay with me. I'll stay here tonight… tomorrow… forever… with you."
"As you saw, he has finally begun to take his medicine willingly," a man in white coat noted matter-of-factly as he looked at the sleeping patient from behind the glass, and then glanced at the old woman beside him.
She stared at her son who was separated from her by a glass. "Is he… Will he…?" she whispered as she forced her eyes away from her son and redirected them to the doctor. Under his solemn gaze, her questions trailed off. Could she ask? Was it a sign of her depleting faith if she asked?
"No one knows if he will recover," the doctor answered her incomplete question. "For now, this white room is the safest place for him. In there, he is not insane. He can live his memories and his thoughts in whatever fashion he desires."
Slowly, Molly Weasley nodded as she turned away and pressed both her palms on the glass. She returned to watch the gentle rise and fall of her son's chest. He was finally quiet and calm. He was finally asleep.
She had watched him: when they injected him with one of his medications, they had to hold him down; his short rest when he was groaning and murmuring sleepily; his strange interactions with the specially-made doll; his attempts at casting spells with a plastic toy wand; his tears for the mannequin and heart-wrenching screams; and his peaceful sleep.
"You'll let him keep the doll?" she asked softly as she looked at the mannequin. It had an uncanny resemblance to her son, but that was not unexpected.
The doctor who was assigned to her son had decided to create a magically-charmed mannequin in Fred's image. He had dressed the doll in Fred Weasley's clothes, fixed a wig made from Fred Weasley's hair, coloured its eyes the same as Fred Weasley's eyes, and coated it in clay that closely resembled human skin. The only disadvantage about the doll was its inability to operate on its own - it needed the doctor to control it like a puppet on magical strings. After all, it was the doctor's magic and necromancy-spells that brought a copy of her dead son to life.
"Of course, we will also fix it," the doctor agreed as he waved his hand and a team of nurses entered the room softly to retrieve the mangled mannequin and brought it to him. "Perhaps, Potion of Thirst was too much," he clicked his tongue as he noted the devastated doll, before he slung it carelessly over his shoulder. "If you need me-"
"I've your business card, doctor. I'll summon a nurse to fetch you if I need you," Molly whispered as her knees buckled and she sank to the floor. "Now, I just want to be alone with my son."
Without another word, Molly heard the soft retreating steps of the doctor. How cruel and vicious was fate? One of her sons had been driven to insanity by twinless grief, and the doctor-in-charge of her son bore a similar name to her brothers' murderer. Perhaps, she had finally found the reason. For her son, for her baby, she would let the grudge go and place her faith in him. Dr Antoine Dolohoff.
"I need to let the ghosts go, so you can heal," Molly sighed as she rested her forehead against the glass. "I'll be with you tonight, tomorrow… I'll wait for you forever, my baby."
Thank you for reading.