Unlikely || George Weasley

Chapter 11 - Dreams

Weasleys Wizard Wheezes, 13 June 1998

The air splintered around him, crumbling rock and brick thrown forcefully by the explosive hit of a curse, and a thick red dust clogged his eyes and mouth. He was gasping, his head pounding and unable to think straight. He couldn't hear properly through the tinnitus ringing through his good ear, and the hall twisted in his blurred vision. The axis of his sight was wonky and sickening.

The mangled body on the floor stared up at vacant ceiling. His own face, but not quite. It was Fred.

It was always Fred.

No, please – not again,

This was wrong, everything was wrong. George screamed, his insides rupturing into fragments and irreparably destroyed. He hadn't been able to save him. Again.

He dropped to his knees and clawed at the bloodied chest of his twin, willing him back to life with every inch of his being.

With a crack of lightning, Fred was consumed by a shimmering gold orb of light. His head rolled back, his chest raising up towards the sky and George watched, unbreathing. The light faded and Fred's eyes opened slowly, revealing blank white spheres that showed no expression. They turned on George, and he backed away in terror.

"How could you do this to us?" The creature with Fred's face asked, twisting its head to stare unblinking at George. A gush of blood ran down the side of his head, and George's body went cold.

"Do – do what?" George whispered.

This wasn't him – this wasn't his brother anymore. Fred's face flickered, like a glitch, and for a split second it was Ron gazing at George with those unseeing, penetrating eyes. George blinked, rooted to the spot, and Ron's sneering face jerked and snapped back instantly into Fred's.

"HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?" The Not-Fred sat up facing him, bellowing at George in a deep, demonic voice that had nothing of Fred left in it at all.

"I'm sorry! I don't know!" George screamed, unable to look away from this nightmarish new Fred.

His legs couldn't move, he couldn't run away. George was stuck, fixed by the empty place where his twin's eyes should be. A bleeding hand extended outwards towards George. He was backed against the far wall of the Great Hall and there was no way out.

"No, Fred, no! NO!"

The warped version of his dead brother dragged itself closer to him.

***

George sat bolt upright, his heart thumping so aggressively it felt like it would burst out of his chest. His back was drenched in a cold sweat that clung to him and he panted heavily, his face wet with tears. It took several agonising seconds for him to realise he was safe in his own bed in the flat. The curtains fluttered in the light breeze from the open window, causing shadows to creep across the floor. George's thick red duvet was bundled up and half falling off the bottom of the bed – he must have kicked it off, thrashing and writhing during his dream.

He clamped a hand over his parched mouth, certain he'd called out into the dark room. He wiped his eyes, listening, but there was no sound from the other side of the wall. That was a relief. George hadn't had a nightmare like that for a few weeks, and he really didn't want Fred to see him like this; it would only make him worry.

George shuddered and scrunched his eyes up at the thought of the demonic white-eyed version of his twin. With his heartbeat gradually slowing down to normal, he groaned and resigned himself to the fact he wouldn't be able to sleep in any longer. The old alarm clock on his bedside table read that it was only a quarter to six in the morning, and he could hear the faintest stirrings of birds on the roof above.