Valley Forge

George sat numbly in the overcrowded confines of Shell Cottage. He hadn’t moved since he and Lee had made it back last night. 

Most of Shell Cottage’s inhabitants hadn’t gotten to bed until the early morning hours of May 3. The kitchen table at which he sat had been a hub for hushed late-night conversations. His mother sat by his side through these, gripping his hand tightly enough to hurt, though George hadn’t said a thing. She stayed with him even after the rest of them had left the kitchen. Sat with him silently, she'd rubbed her thumb across the back of his hand until she began to nod off. She’d stuck by him for a while past that even, drifting in and out of sleep. Eventually, though, she’d gotten up, grimacing at her stiff limbs, before making her way to the cupboards.

She shuffled around for quite a bit before George had realized what she was doing.

She made two mugs of hot chocolate, setting one gently down where she’d been sitting, and slotted another between his hands. She drank her own slowly, glancing at him nondiscreetly, looking disappointed at his continued lack of movement. He couldn’t be bothered to feel something about that.

Just before sunrise, after she’d fiddled with her empty mug for what George guessed to be more than an hour, she’d finally sighed and stood up. She pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around him and resting his head against her chest. She kissed it firmly, lingering, then rested her chin atop his mop of still dirty hair. She rubbed at his shoulders a few minutes more, before she whispered a simple good night and dragged herself to the sitting room. Some two hours later, the beverage remained untouched, George’s fingers cramping around it.

His dad had stayed up the longest besides him. He and Charlie had gone outside just after Bill and Fleur retired, and George heard snatches of their conversation from the kitchen window they probably didn’t know was cracked open. 

His dad had started crying at one point. George hadn’t seen, or rather heard, that before. Evidently, Charlie hadn’t either. His usual confidence dissipated immediately. He sounded young and scared as he asked what was wrong.

George knew the answer to that. 

Everyone did, even Charlie.

His older brother had come back just a few minutes after that, passing by the kitchen without noticing George. His dad, though, had stayed out well after sunrise. Dawn's silence would occasionally be interrupted by a shaky breath or sniffle from the direction of the window. Still, George didn’t move.

When Arthur finally came back in, he’d been distractedly rubbing at his eyes as he made his way into the kitchen. He leapt nearly a foot in the air when he’d realized he wasn’t alone. Usually, that’d be something that’d have George in hysterics, but now it just felt hollow. 

“George.” his dad breathed, clutching at his chest, “Blimey, son, what are you still doing up?”

George didn’t know if he could speak even if he wanted to. 

Arthur’s expression melted. “George,” he muttered again, rounding the table to get to his side. His dad's eyes were red and swollen. He reached over to rub circles into his back. “Let’s get to bed, lad. Yeah?”

He pulled at the twin's arm. George didn’t fight it, numbly going along with his father's motions. “There we go.” Arthur murmured, leading him up the stairs. 

They entered into a bedroom that might’ve been Griphook's before. Arthur sat him down on the bed and kneeled to pull off his shoes for him. George felt strangely like a child. The older man stood back up, wincing as his joints crackled their protests. He set the shoes on a nearby chair, then turned back to face his son. He regarded George softly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s lay down, yeah?”

When George failed to move, Arthur gently pushed him down, resting his head on a pillow and pulling his legs onto the bed. George only continued to stare.

A hand ran through his hair. It lingered like his mother's kiss.

But like everything, it eventually pulled away, and George was left alone.

Dean awoke to a sensation of floating, as though he were drifting between sleep and wakefulness. His body ached, his head pounded with every beat of his heart, and each breath came with a dull, throbbing pain in his ribs. But it wasn’t the sharp agony from before. He blinked against the light, trying to focus. Something tugged at the edge of his memory—something important.

Right. Before.

He jolted upright and immediately regretted it, gasping as a wave of pain crashed into him. His vision swam, and he squeezed his eyes shut, clutching at his (bandaged?) ribs with one arm, trying to will the pain away. When he opened them again, he breathed in and out and took note of his surroundings. He was in a spacious, beautifully adorned room, not unlike the homes he’d imagine old-money aristocratic families would have in the muggle world. There was an old but well-kept grandeur about the room. If not for the moving pictures on the bedside table, Dean wouldn’t have known he was still in the wizarding world. 

Before doing anything else, Dean scanned the room, looking for his wand. When he didn’t see it, he patted himself down, but to no avail. Mentally cursing, Dean made to get to his feet, kicking off a velvety duvet without much thought. His ribs complained at his lack of care, and he gritted his teeth against the subsequent pain. Internally, he hurled obscenities and struggled to keep quiet, counting to seventy-four before he found the courage to move again.

He slipped the covers off gingerly this time, then rested one arm protectively against his ribs as he stepped barefoot onto the cold bedroom floor. The pain was manageable when he moved slowly. He grimaced at the distance between the bed and the door but resolutely set out on the laborious journey. He was seeing black dots by the time he reached the exit, and took a moment to rest against the dark wood, quietly panting, before he twisted the knob. 

The door opened without complaint, not even a creak, but Dean was still cautious and peeked his head out just barely past the doorframe. The hallway was partially paneled with wood that looked more black than brown. The wallpaper was darker still, and the candles along the wall did little to brighten his path. He squinted his eyes but saw no movement from either end of the hallway. Carefully, an arm still around his midsection, he stepped into the corridor. He eyed a sleeping portrait warily and moved in its opposite direction. He’d only gotten a few steps in when he noted a staircase with some relief. He walked a bit faster now that he had it in his view but paused at the top when the mumblings of voices hit his ears. He strained to hear but couldn’t quite make them out. He took a moment to consider his options, eyeing the hallway behind him, before reluctantly putting a hand on the bannister and slowly descending. His knuckles turned white with the strength of his grip, tightened firmly on account of nerves and pain. He wished desperately that he knew where his wand was. 

Eventually, the voices drew close enough that Dean was able to make them out. One was immediately familiar—furious, Irish, and unmistakably Seamus. The other he didn’t immediately recognize. As he climbed down, though, it became distinct enough—smooth, deep, and velvety—that he was able to pinpoint its owner. Kingsley. 

Feeling safe enough to mostly let down his guard, Dean followed the voices into what appeared to be a kitchen. It was as aristocratic as the rest of the house. Dark wooden cabinets rested sleekly against oxford-blue walls, and gleaming obsidian counters were lined with silver trinkets and old, well-preserved magical relics. Dean took them in only superficially, his attention drawn firmly to the wizards at the center of the room. They were having a discussion—or, rather, Seamus was shouting at the auror, who stood before him silent and impassive. The sandy-haired boy was barely a meter from the pureblood, his face flush with fire and indignation, jabbing a finger at the older wizard’s chest. Dean paused in the doorway.

Seamus's back was to Dean, his voice slightly hoarse, as if he’d been at this for a long time.

Kingsley remained still, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“We have to do something now!” Seamus shouted. Dean shifted his weight.

The motion was enough to attract Kingsley’s attention, his eyes flicking toward Dean and lingering on his figure. Seamus only got in a few more words before he noticed Kingsley wasn’t paying attention. “Are you even listening to me?” he asked, sounding freshly incensed.

Dean cleared his throat. Seamus turned immediately, his anger melting into concern in an instant.

“Dean!” he rushed forward, gripping him by the forearm before he could protest. “You shouldn’t be out of bed!”

Dean let his friend guide him to a chair without complaint, admittedly tired from the exertion of making his way to the kitchen. He nearly laughed when his friend stopped him from collapsing into the green easy chair, just so he could fluff a cushion. Seamus hit it a few times and positioned it just so on the chair before he was apparently satisfied, and helped Dean lower himself into it. Dean exhaled tightly as his ribs resettled. Seamus moved instantly to fuss again, but Dean batted the mother hen away. Kingsley, who’d followed them at a distance, continued to observe Dean with his discerning, sharp eyes.

Dean swallowed hard, still trying to gather his scattered thoughts. “What happened?”

Seamus glanced at Kingsley before answering. That alone made Dean uneasy.

“How much do you remember?” he asked tentatively, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean closed his eyes and brought a hand to his temple, trying to work through his memories. They came and went in flashes. The fight. The lull. The dead.

He grimaced. 

Apparently, that was enough for Seamus to understand. “You passed out before we made it through the tunnel,” he explained. “We ran into Kingsley—he saw the state you were in and apparated us out. Probably a good thing, ‘cause if I’d done it, you’d be splinched on top of everything else.”

Kingsley nodded, adding, “I did my best with your injuries, but healing magic isn’t my expertise.”

Dean barely heard him. His thoughts were racing too fast, skimming from memory to memory. The battle. The retreat. The screams. The losses.

“How long...?” he asked.

"Have you been out?" Seamus finished. Dean inclined his head. “A little over a day.”

Not as bad as he'd thought. “Where are we?”

“My home,” answered Kingsley.

That made sense, Dean supposed, reflecting on the decor. It made him feel the slightest bit safer. Kingsley was an auror and a prominent leader of the resistance; his home would be undoubtedly well-secured. Dean inhaled deeply before asking his next question.

“How many...?”

Seamus’ grip on his shoulder tightened.

Kingsley spoke, his voice steady. “There’s no definite count. But we believe it’s more than fifty.”

Dean exhaled sharply. Fifty. He turned to Seamus, knowing his friend would read the question in his eyes.

Seamus refused to meet his gaze. “Kingsley’s working on regrouping everyone, getting a tally,” he said instead. “We’re going to hit them back, hard.”

Kingsley’s mouth pressed into a line. 

“Seamus.” Dean said (asked). Seamus met his gaze and looked away just as quickly.

Dean resorted to asking it outright. “Who?”

"Who what?" Seamus played dumb.

Dean fixed him with a glare.

Seamus closed his eyes briefly before opening them again. He sounded defeated when he admitted, “Mandy.”

Dean’s chest constricted. He had seen it, but it still hurt to hear.

“Fred,” Seamus continued, “Ernie, Professor Lupin, Hagrid, and… and Harry.”

“Who that I don’t know?” Dean asked firmly.

Seamus exhaled shakily. “Lavender.”

Dean’s stomach twisted, but he forced out: “How?”

“Greyback.”

That was enough.

His hands clenched into fists. “Who else?”

Seamus hesitated, “Alicia… Professor Trelawney…” 

Dean grimaced but still sensed his friend was stalling. He pushed it: “And?”

Seamus swallowed hard. He shook his head as he said the following name as if trying to deny it, “Professor McGonagall.”

Dean reeled. He barely registered Seamus’ next words. “We don’t know if Flitwick is going to make it. Dolohov got him pretty bad. We don’t even really know what’s wrong with him. Podmore managed to get him out, I don't know if you know him. He was the blonde who kept casting Tarantallegra for whatever bloody reason. He sent Kingsley a patronus yesterday, but they’re hiding right now. Whatever Dolohov hit Flitwick with… it’s dark magic. Podmore’s not a healer. But he can’t move him either and he’s just getting worse and worse… and you know with dark magic…” the Irishman cleared his throat, “Like I said though… we’re going to regroup. We’ve gotten messages from a load of people. Kingsley made the right call with the retreat. Ron and Hermione are safe with his family. Anthony said he, Terry, and Michael made it out alright. Aberforth has half-a-dozen people with him… Neville too, somehow.” he let out a strained laugh. Dean knew what he was doing. 

He was trying to placate him. Trying to reassure him in that annoying way he’d learned from his mum - downplaying the situation at hand and pretending everything was going to be all right. Dean realized he wasn’t going to get the truth of it from his friend. One glance at Kingsley was enough to know that things had shifted. Dean could read it in his expression. He wasn’t trying to hide it from Dean. Or maybe he just wasn’t in denial.

“Kingsley,” Dean cut his friend off.

The pureblood met his gaze steadily. Dean bit the inside of his cheek, nervous. “Are we—” He hesitated, reformulating his words. “Is it over?” Kingsley’s expression didn’t shift in the slightest.

Seamus spluttered beside him, “Dean! How can you even—”

Dean tuned him out, not removing his gaze from the auror despite Seamus’ emphatic gestures.

“Tell me.” Dean implored.

The older man stayed silent a few more moments but finally answered, frank as ever, “I don’t know.”

Justin stumbled through the front door, barely catching himself on the entryway table before he collapsed outright. He was bleeding—his own blood dried and crusted over cuts, someone else’s smeared along his sleeve—and his head pounded in time with his pulse. His entire body ached, but none of it mattered right now.

He was home.

A sharp inhale cut through the air, followed by the squeak of dress shoes against hardwood—his father.

“For God’s sake, Justin—what on earth have you done to yourself?” his father snapped as he made his way over. He gripped his sons arm tightly, and looked him up and down, inspecting him for serious injury. Anxiously, he peered over his son's shoulder at the still-open front door. “Showing up without a word," he hissed, hurriedly shutting it, “If you were seen—”

Justin had been expecting the reprimand. The scolding. He hadn’t quite expected the sheer relief that flooded his chest at the sight of his father, alive and unscathed. It made the reproaching seem miniscule and unimportant.

“I’m fine,” he muttered in answer to the unasked question, but his voice cracked with exhaustion. He turned his head toward the hallway and saw his mother, standing at the threshold of the sitting room, her face wrinkled with concern.

“Justin?” she asked warily. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, good, Mum,” he said quickly, straightening up. “Get packing. Right now. We need to go. We need to hide.”

She paled, fear creeping into her features, but before she could move or speak, his father extended a hand, stilling her.

His father stayed facing him, “Why on earth,” he asked, his voice calm and measured, “would we need to do that?” 

Justin looked back at him, trying to convey the urgency of the situation, frustration already building. “Because we’re in danger. You’re in danger.”

His father’s expression didn’t shift. “Justin, if this is about—”

“It’s about everything,” Justin interrupted. “The attacks, the disappearances, all of it—it’s not what the news is saying. It’s not terrorism. It’s dark wizards. They’re after Muggleborns. And Muggles-”

His father’s face darkened. “You know I don’t like that word.”

“Dad, this isn’t the time—”

“And that's nonsense. The people responsible for those incidents have clear ties to—”

He was too exhausted to be rehashing the same argument they'd had nearly a year ago. “That’s just what they want you to think! There’s a whole program at the Ministry in charge of it.” 

His father’s lips pursed condescendingly. “Son, I think you need to lie down. You look like you haven’t slept in days, and you’re raving like a madman.”

“No, Dad, listen to me. You don’t understand. They’re coming for people like us. For me. You’re targets.” he turned again to his mother and fixed her with the sternest expression he could muster. “Mum, go pack.”

“No, Justin,” his father said primly. “We’ll be doing no such thing.”

Justin’s heart pounded against his ribs. “Dad—”

“You pulled this same stunt last year,” his father said, his tone clipped and impatient. “Got your mother all worked up. Disappeared on us for a year. We haven’t seen you since—since—” He shook his head, exhaling through his nose in frustration. “And nothing happened. You made all these warnings, and yet here we are, perfectly fine.”

“Last year was different,” Justin snapped. “Last year, it was... It's different now. There’s nobody to protect you anymore.”

His father only shook his head, unmoved. His mother looked between them, shifting nervously but saying nothing.

“Where’s Henry?” Justin asked, suddenly worried for his younger brother. 

“He’ll be home later,” his father said simply. Then sternly: “And we will not have you filling his head with this nonsense.”

Justin swallowed. “It’s not nonsense,” he whispered.

It was Percy who broke first. He crumbled into a fit of hysterics, sobbing and muttering over and over again that it was his fault. George, already stretched too thin, snapped. The grief that had rendered him nearly catatonic suddenly transformed into a blinding rage. He was screaming before he even realized it.

“Yes!” he’d screamed, “It’s all your fault! Look what you fucking did! You selfish, arrogant prick!”

It was his fault, he’d felt at that moment. Percy had wanted to be on the right side of things. Then he wanted to fix what he broke, but it had been too late. Fred had paid the price for it. 

The room went silent when he lashed out. Percy was shaking. George’s chest heaved, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse under the weight of it all. Then Lee stepped forward, his voice low but firm, telling George he couldn’t do that. That it wasn’t Percy’s fault. George ignored him, opting to storm out of the cottage and simmer in his anger at the edges of the property until well after dark.

Anthony offered an exhausted smile as he leaned against the kitchen counter, his tea cooling in his hands. “Mrs. Bones, really—thank you again for letting me stay. I promise I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

Susan’s mother waved him off with a small, tired smile. “It’s no trouble at all, dear. You’re always welcome here.”

Susan observed them from the countertop. Anthony’s shoulders loosened just a little at her mother’s reassurance.

A sharp tapping at the window made them all jump. Susan turned just as her mother crossed the room, unfastening the latch to let the owl inside. The bird ruffled its feathers, dropping a letter onto the table before perching itself next to Susan. She smiled at the tawny owl and ran a gentle hand over its feathers. It cooed lightly and butted its head against her palm. 

Susan’s mother unfolded the letter, scanning the contents, her face betraying nothing. But then she let out a soft sigh, folding the parchment neatly and setting it aside.

“Well,” she said, smoothing her hands over her skirt. “Anthony, you’re welcome to stay another night if you need.”

Anthony straightened. “Are you sure? I don’t want to overstay—”

“You won’t be,” her mother interrupted, her voice gentle but firm. “Justin won’t be back.”

Susan’s fingers curled around the edge of the table, but she didn’t say anything.

The words hung in the air, heavy and uncertain.

“Stay,” Susan said quietly. “It’s safer.”

Anthony hesitated, then gave a short nod in return.

“We need to get Potterwatch back up.” George said, striding into the kitchen without preamble.

Lee blinked at him, taken aback. “Now? George, your family—”

“I need to get away,” George interrupted, “With or without you.”

He dropped his rucksack onto the counter and began parsing through the cupboards, barely looking at the canned goods he dropped into the bag. He felt Lee’s gaze, worried and disoriented, pressing against his back. He could feel the other man scrambling to catch up mentally.

“Okay.” he finally said, “But I’m not eating sardines.”

It was a mistake to tell them he was leaving. His mother broke down, clutching at him on the verge of tears, begging him to stay. George had to shake her off physically, his guilt barely registering beneath the anger. He stormed out, leaving Lee to murmur his apologies and reassurances for him.

Lee’s flat was cold and quiet. The moment they arrived, George heaved the rucksack onto his kitchen table, pulled out a bit of parchment, and started writing. Lee came up behind him and hovered at his shoulder. “Mate…?”

George kept writing.

Lee sighed and sat down, watching his friend’s frantic quill strokes. George suddenly groaned, shoving the parchment aside. “Who else?”

Lee frowned. “Who else what?”

“Who else is dead?” George demanded. “People need to know. Their loved ones.”

Lee froze in place. He swallowed hard. “George…”

George turned back to his parchment. Lee reached over and tried gently to pull the quill from his hand. In an instant, George shoved him away, his face contorted in anger.

“Help me or fuck off,” he snapped.

Lee clenched his jaw. “Y’know you’re not the only one who lost Fred.”

For a moment, guilt flickered across George’s face. But then he hardened. “Fuck off then.” he muttered.