Fifteen Years

Part Twelve

Despite the intensity of their conversation, Charlie Weasley was snoring within minutes. Unable to bear the noise, George twisted onto his stomach and jammed his pillow over his head. With the muffled sounds of heavy breathing bouncing off the feathers and linen instead of his earlobes, he was able to clear the jumbled mess inside his head.

                Charlie didn't trust him.

                                Angelina didn't trust him.

                                                And he wasn't sure if he even trusted himself.

 Why was it that he felt like he could trust no-one, not a single person, when he needed them the most? All he wanted was someone who could actually share his pain and help carry the burden of Fred's death. Someone who would help him find Fred. Someone who wouldn't think he was going mental -just because all of his hopes were placed in one minuscule, mislaid stone.

 The resurrection stone.

Finding it was becoming a part of him, almost an obsession. It was chewing up his brain, gnawing at his soul. He couldn't keep his mind off the amethyst-black nugget, off what it represented. Fred. The happiness the stone would bring, if only he could find it. Before someone found him. Before someone stopped him.  

The sound of an erratic drumbeat penetrated his pillow.

                It was his heart.

As silent as the night itself, George slid from his sleeping bag. A cold feeling of unease grasped his heart as he rearranged the pillows on his bunk to look like a sleeping figure. There. It would be good enough if no-one bothered to look too closely. Standing on tiptoes so he took a final look at his sleeping brother. Charlie looked peaceful, like all the world was on his side, like he had no worries... like he didn't have a younger brother who was heading into danger. With a loud snore, he rolled over and faced the other way.

Four large strides took him to the opening in the tent. An utterly slow upwards motion and an unbearably piercing sound left the flap unzipped. The grass bristled beneath as he stepped out into the night.

The supply tent was only a couple of metres away. Eyes flicking from left to right, George entered. There, on a row of hooks loosely dangling from one of the support beams, were eight bags. When the men had begun unloading mountains of equipment from these bags, George had realised what had been done to them. Undetectable extension charms. The interior of the bags could easily be the size of a small van, even though they only appeared to be the size of an average schoolbag. Despite their small appearance, any object of any size could be placed into the gulfing interior.



Wondering why he hadn't thought of using this charm himself, he snatched a bag from one of the hooks and headed over to a corner where his boxes, broom and the remains of his tent had been thrown in a pile. Fingers shaking, he cracked open the crates and began piling the fireworks inside.

                "Is anybody in there?" a voice called through the wall.

George leapt up into the air and jumped behind his boxes, wriggling himself under his old tent and covering his head. Footsteps approached. As the tent flaps parted, he sucked in a deep breath of air and held it in, not trusting himself to breathe silently.

The man did a quick circuit of the tent, and grunted. George heard the flap zip shut behind him as he left. Exhaling deeply, he finished piling all off his goods into the stolen bag. A feeling of frustration hit him as he slung the bag over his shoulder and exited the tent. He was a thief!

                But he wasn't finished yet.

Craning his neck, he made sure that the coast was clear.

There was still one thing he needed to collect.

---

The potions homework was excruciatingly horrible whichever way he looked at it. What did he care if beetle eyes exploded, leaving the user coated in black slime, when mixed with certain types of potions? Although, he amended himself, the knowledge might come in useful if he ever got the opportunity to lob a perfect selection of ingredients into a Slytherins cauldron...

Yet he still felt that writing an essay about it was ridiculous.

                "Sleeping draughts," Ryan said, throwing himself back into a chair.

Freddie looked at him. "What about them?"

"Beetle eyes explode if you put them in sleeping draughts."

Freddie muttered his thanks, and scribbled a note down on his parchment.

I did an essay on it last year. You can copy if you want. It's probably still in the bottom of my trunk."

 It was close to midnight, the essay was due first thing the next morning, and Freddie could barely keep his eyes open. "That would be brilliant," he said, then noticed the glint in Ryan's eyes. "Wait, what grade did you get?"

Ryan snorted, "T."

"Troll!" Freddie laughed, turning his gaze to the ceiling, "I think I'll stick with my own essay, thanks all the same."

"Enjoy your evening then," Ryan said in a mocking tone. He slapped Freddie on the back and headed up to the dormitory.



The common room was deserted now. Freddie found himself staring in to the fireplace, wishing that he was tucked up in bed. He was making no progress with the potions homework. Maybe he should just finish it off tomorrow...

---

Attempting to be as noiseless as possible, George sidled up to the sleeping mass of scales, claws and teeth. Heart hammering, he began to wonder if he had gone mad. This was ridiculous, this was not going to work, he was going to die.

                "Relashio," he said, aiming his wands at the manacles. Desolate, the chains fell to the ground.

The Scottish Sharptail opened a bleary eye.