Dances, Deception and Death Eaters

Chapter 7

Evie lay on her bed, staring up at the delicate, painted ceiling of her dorm room at Beauxbatons. The soft glow of the evening filtered through the tall windows, casting the room in a hazy golden light, but her thoughts were far from this polished, perfect place. She had a letter spread out before her, ink smudged from where her fingers had lingered too long on the page.

It was from George. His messy scrawl danced across the parchment, playful and chaotic, just like him. His letters were always a welcome distraction—little pockets of warmth and humour that made her feel, for a moment, like she was back where she belonged. At Hogwarts. With George, Fred, and everyone else.

Her lips curled into a smile as she reread his latest prank. He and Fred had slipped a concoction into Snape's morning tea that turned his hair bright green and frizzy. George didn't spare any detail—how they'd barely managed to escape Filch's wrath, the look on Snape's face when he'd stormed into the Great Hall, hair blazing like a neon bush.

Wish you could've seen it, Evie. Could've used your devious mind for the perfect getaway—Fred and I only barely escaped that one by the skin of our teeth. He had written.

Evie laughed under her breath. She could imagine it so clearly—the twins, grinning madly as they tore down the corridors, Snape's furious shouts echoing behind them. I wish I could have seen it too, she thought, the longing she felt for Hogwarts twisted painfully in her chest.

Her fingers hovered over her quill as she prepared to write her reply. She hadn't written back in over a week, and she knew George was starting to worry. He'd mentioned it in his last letter—Where've you been, E? I know you have been poorly and Beauxbatons is keeping you busy, but I miss our chats. You haven't turned all prim and proper on me, have you?

If only he knew how far from proper she really was.

Evie dipped her quill in ink and started writing.

---

Dear George,

First of all, let me just say, that prank you pulled on Snape? Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I laughed so hard when I read about it, I nearly fell out of bed. Only you two could pull off something like that and survive to tell the tale. Honestly, I wish I could've been there to help. You know I would've thought of something to get you both out of Filch's clutches.

But... I can't do that kind of thing here anymore.

It's different at Beauxbatons. Not in a good way. They don't appreciate pranks the way Hogwarts does, you know? The last few times I pulled something, they made it clear—if I don't stop, I'll never be allowed back to Hogwarts. Ever.

I can't risk that, Georgie. I have to make it back. I need to be back there, with you and Fred and everyone. Two and a half more years. It feels like forever, but I'm trying to keep my head down. It's harder than I thought it would be.

Anyway, tell me more about what's happening over there. What else have you been up to? Miss you, as always.

Yours,

Evie

---

As she finished the letter, Evie stared down at the page. The weight of what she hadn't said lingered like a shadow over her words. She hadn't told George about the punishments—the harsh detentions had turned into something worse, something far more brutal than she ever could have imagined. The teachers had turned a blind eye when the girls hexed her during class, but when she retaliated, it had only escalated.

Now, they were taking matters into their own hands. The bruises hidden under her robes throbbed in silent testament to the price of her previous defiance.

But George didn't need to know that. He didn't need to worry about her. She just had to hold on. Just keep her head down. Two and a half more years.

—

George had been pacing the Gryffindor common room for nearly an hour, Fred watching him from the couch with an arched eyebrow. A crumpled letter from Evie sat in George's hand, and though Fred had long since gone back to his Transfiguration homework, George couldn't stop thinking about what he'd just read.

"She's holding back," he muttered to himself, the worry bubbling under his skin. "I know she is."

Fred glanced up. "Evie? She finally wrote you back, didn't she? What's she saying?"

"She says she can't prank anymore. Says they'll ban her from coming back to Hogwarts if she keeps it up."

Fred snorted. "Sounds like Beauxbatons is even more uptight than we thought."

George didn't smile. He could feel the shift in Evie, even through the carefully chosen words in her letter. The spark that had always been there—the fire behind her pranks and her mischievous laughter—was flickering, dimming. And she hadn't written for so long, which wasn't like her. Plus she didn't come home at Christmas, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

"Fred, I'm worried about her," George said, sinking into the armchair beside his brother. "She's not saying everything. I can tell. She's different."

Fred frowned, leaning forward. "Yeah, I noticed that too. Ever since she got to Beauxbatons, her letters haven't been the same. She jokes around, but it's like... it's not really her, not the Evie we know."

George stared into the fireplace, the flickering flames mirroring the knot in his stomach. "I don't think she's alright Freddie, she's not telling us everything."

Fred gave him a look. "Then ask her. She'll tell you if you push. You know Evie—she's stubborn, but she'll crack eventually."

George nodded, but something still nagged at him. He didn't want to push too hard, didn't want to make her feel like she couldn't trust him. But at the same time, the thought of her going through something terrible alone—it made his chest tighten.

Later that night, he wrote his reply.

---

Dear Evie,

You're killing me, you know that? First you take over a week to write to me, and now you tell me you're giving up on pranks? Who even are you?

Kidding. Mostly. I know you've got your reasons, but it still sucks. Hogwarts isn't the same without you around to stir things up. Fred and I are holding down the fort, but you know we're better when we've got you with us. Sounds like a real nightmare over there.

Are you okay, though? I mean, really? You've been quiet lately, and I just... I dunno. You don't have to tell me everything, but if something's going on, you know you can talk to me, right? We miss you here. I miss you. And if something's making you miserable over there, more miserable than usual when you are away from my handsome face, maybe we can figure something out. Just... let me know if you need me, yeah?

Anyway, enough of my mushy rubbish. You asked what else we've been up to—well, Fred and I have a new project in the works. It involves Filch, a large amount of disappearing ink, and an entire corridor of paintings that might not make it through the week. I'll let you know how it goes. Wish us luck.

We'll get you back here, Evie. Two and a half years is nothing. You'll be back where you belong soon enough. Promise.

Yours always,

George

---

When Evie received George's letter a few days later, she felt a warmth bloom in her chest, though it was tinged with guilt. He could sense the change in her, just like she'd feared. But as much as she wanted to tell him everything, she couldn't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But his words, his jokes, his unwavering support—they gave her hope. Hope that maybe, she could survive this place long enough to get back to where she belonged. To Hogwarts. To George.