What's Your Name? (Fred Weasley)

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I was woken up suddenly on a late night or early morning—I didn't know—and something was off. The heavy rain was the only thing I could hear, not the usual squeaking of my cheap bed frame or pattering of steps of other girls running up and down the halls far past curfew. I lifted my head up from my pillow and looked around my room, searching for anything unusual, but everything was left completely untouched.

After a long moment, I tried to force myself to go back to sleep, pushing every wary thought to the back of my mind. But t hen, I heard it.

A small creak from the floorboards.

It was quiet and subtle, but the creak was still there.

Someone was still there.

I blinked once. Blinked again. And then a third time. I could feel his presence. I knew he was there. Waiting. Watching. Still.

"You're here." I whispered, as if saying it any louder would make it any less true. "I knew you would come."

"I've missed you, Stella." he whispered back almost immediately as if he couldn't wait another moment. It wasn't my real name—it wasn't even close—but there was one person left in this world who insisted on calling me that.

His voice was shaggy, as if he had spent the last twelve years screaming and crying. He took a step out of the shadows, showing his long, frizzy, black hair and his worn clothes. His figure looked hurt and in pain, but his face didn't show it. His face looked happy, relieved.

"How... how are you here?" I asked quietly. "You were in Azkaban. You are supposed to be in Azkaban."

As if it were an explanation, my father took a crumpled up piece of paper out of his back pocket and held it out to me. The cover had a moving picture, something I hadn't seen since I was three. It was a photo of a large family smiling in front of the pyramids, but my eyes didn't stay on them long. They went straight to the rat with a missing finger.

I gasped. "Peter is alive."

My father looked at me, confused. "How did you...? You were three."

My eyes were still glued to the photo, "He killed my mother right in front of me. I might've been three, but you don't forget things like that."

"We're going to find him," my father said, giving me a sad look, "And we'll make sure he won't hurt anyone ever again."

I stood up from my bed and walked towards my father. My steps were slow and wobbly, as if both of my legs would snap any moment. Then, I hugged him. I didn't remember the last time I ever hugged my father. I didn't even think I had a memory of that.

"How are we going to do that?" I asked, holding onto my father for dear life.

"First, we need to get you out of here." He said.

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