Before the Dawn | George Weasley

56

Months melted away with the winter snow.

I sat on a window sill inside Malfoy Manor, eyeing the bright and cheerful day outside, but feeling rather gloomy myself. I'd spent the morning sitting on my bed and examining the photo inside my locket, wanting nothing more than to see his smile, hear his laugh. I took a deep hit from my flask, letting my mind wander.

I hadn't seen George since the day at Borgin and Burkes. I knew he was rattled by how readily I'd intruded into his memories, how easily I'd sifted through them as if they were my own—I'd seen it in the creases of fear on his face, the shadow of betrayal in his eyes. 

I'd learned legilimency from Bellatrix, who was frighteningly adept at it. Luckily, she had never thought of using me as a subject, instead targeting any lower-level Death Eater who happened to be nearby, and I'd quickly caught on, able to break through even the most guarded minds and rifle through their most intimate thoughts and memories whenever I pleased.

Not that I cared to do it. I'd seen the effects it could have firsthand.

I knew using the memory spell on George had been a cruel invasion of privacy, that he may never again trust me quite like he had before, but I'd acted instinctively in a moment of fear. Fear that Amycus would be quicker on the draw, fear that he would use something a little blunter, more painful, to coax the truth from George's mouth. 

Now, months later, I could only hope that somehow he understood why I'd done it, hope that he would at least consider forgiving me. If I could only see him for a moment, if I could only give voice to my thoughts, explain why I'd done it—

Movement across the room pulled me from my thoughts. "Dad."

My father froze. "Hello."

"Can I ask you something?"

He seemed to search for an excuse to say no, but apparently couldn't come up with one quickly enough, and wandered over. "What is it?"

"Do you speak Parseltongue?"

Somehow, he grew even tenser than he already was. "No, I don't."

"Mum did, then?"

He squinted at me. "You speak it."

I looked back out the window. "Found that out recently."

There was a pause. "Yes, your mother spoke it."

"Can you tell me more about her? Where is she now?"

I could see him visibly recoil, clearly unwilling to share anything with me. A flare of anger burned in my stomach, and I drew my wand, holding it in my lap.

"You don't get to keep things from me anymore. I can just take it, if you'd rather do things that way."

He frowned, then, his few remaining fatherly instincts kicking in at my harsh words. "Don't you threaten me, Mackenzie."

"Can you at least tell me if she's still alive?"

"She is." He blinked. "Last I heard, she was living somewhere in Southern Wales."

"When was the last time you spoke to her?"

"The night before she left us."

"Do you think—" I broke off, suddenly feeling exceedingly vulnerable. "Do you think she'd want to see me?"

My father's faced steeled. "No."

I felt as if I'd been punched in the gut. "Why not?"

"If she wanted to see us, she would have made some effort to by now. Besides," he paused, his eyes lingering on the ink on my left forearm, exposed by my pushed-up sleeves. "she definitely wouldn't like seeing us like this."