Monsters Aren't Real, Son

Chapter 68: Monsters Aren't Real, Son

October 16-20, 2008

Age 30

George woke up to the sound of muffled whimpering. A quick glance at the clock proved insulting. Two in the bloody morning! Another damn feeding?

Annie barely lifted her face from the pillow next to him. "That's not Joey," she mumbled through a yawn. "Sounds like one of the boys."

"I'll get it," he muttered, only slightly amused his wife's thoughts were running in a similar vein as his. It was instinctual for them both at this point – assuming a noise in the night signaled a hungry child – even though Joey, their youngest, was three and a half now. After nearly a decade of childrearing, they'd discovered (much to their chagrin) that parental sleep deprivation didn't end with weaning.

Annie's head fell back onto her pillow. Apparently, she'd taken his offer to deal with the situation seriously. Damn, he grumbled silently as he kicked off the covers and hauled his reluctant body out of bed.

George staggered into the hallway, noting the whimpering was indeed emanating from the farthest room, just as Annie had predicted. That's odd, he thought. What in hell would cause a practically ten-year-old boy to cry in the middle of the night? Then a disturbing thought came to him. Please, God, don't let it be vomit.

George reached the twins' bedroom a few moments later. Despite the large window wall, the room was dark, mostly shielded as it was from a newly-risen last-quarter-moon's light by the hill at the back of the house. Even so, he could see each bed had a boy-sized lump in it. One of them was still and quiet. The other was sitting up, crying softly.

George tentatively sniffed the air. Can't smell any sick.

He took a hesitant step toward Art's bed. With the next one, George's foot came down on something hard and sharp, and he felt it crunch beneath his weight. The toy squealed for a second as it broke into pieces. An impressive litany of profanity streamed silently in George's head, ending with, Motherfucking Legos!

"Dad?" a small, frightened voice squeaked from the bed.

"What's the matter, Art? Are you ill?" George asked quietly, limping the last few steps to his son's bed. He was grateful that little Fred was sleeping through the noise, just like his namesake would have done.

Art shook his head and sniffled.

George took a seat on the bed beside him. To his surprise, Art then leaned against him, wrapping his arms around George's waist. He put his arm around his son's shoulders, then felt his son's forehead with the other hand. No fever.

"Art, tell me what's the matter."

"Bad dream," the boy mumbled, his face pressed against George's chest.

George rubbed Art's back, hoping it might soothe his agitated son. "Why don't you tell me about it?"

"I was being chased," Art said and sniffled once more. "I couldn't get away."

At least the worst of the tears appear to be over, George thought with relief. He couldn't ever remember dealing with a nightmare of one of the boys' before this. They'd always been a bit mature for their ages and certainly not prone to a runaway imagination. Their creativity usually lay within more logical boundaries.

"You're safe, son. Monsters aren't real," George reminded him.

Art looked up at his father. "It wasn't a monster. It was a man."

"A man?" George asked, startled.

Art nodded. "He was dressed in black and had long white hair and scary eyes...."

An unholy, infuriating image came to George's mind. Malfoy!? Art dreamed about Malfoy? George seethed with a surge of fury, and hatred boiled in his blood. The bastard's name had come to mind more than a few times lately, with all that stupid Governing Board business with Umbridge.

Meanwhile, Art continued with the description of his dream. "We saw him once... at the Leaky Cauldron. You were going to fight him, I remember. He's a bad man, isn't he, Dad?"

Words could not describe how massively disturbed George was that Art remembered the incident. He'd been less than two years old, for Merlin's sake, when they'd gone to the Cauldron for Ginny's birthday and had the unfortunate encounter with the Malfoys. For his son's sake, George brought his furious heart rate back under control.

"I would never let anything happen to you, Art," he assured the boy.

"I know," Art mumbled. "But you weren't there in my dream; it was at school. He was chasing me... in the corridors... down into the dungeons. I think it was scarier because I know he's real. Was he a Death Eater, Dad?"

"Where did you hear that word?" George demanded angrily. I will wring Ron's bloody neck if he's been spouting war stories in front of the kids again!

Art shrank within George's embrace, taken aback by his father's heated tone. "S-some kids at school.... They were talking about the war," he answered timidly.

George took a deep breath. Maybe Annie's right. Maybe they are too young to be at Hogwarts with all those bigger kids.... "Nobody has to be afraid of Death Eaters anymore, Art. They're gone now."

"You were in the Order, weren't you, Dad?"

Christ, he knows about this, too? "Yes," George replied softly, reluctantly.

"And you fought against Death Eaters?" Art pressed.

George sighed. Better he hears the truth from me, rather than a lot of exaggeration and lies from somebody else, I suppose. "Yes. A lot of people did."

"Did you... did you kill any?" Art stammered.

That's as far as this goes tonight. He's not even ten bloody years old yet! "It's very late, Art, and you have school tomorrow. D'you think you can get back to sleep now?" George asked with a calmness he most assuredly did not feel.

Art nodded hesitantly. George stood up, and Art lay down, allowing his father to tuck the blankets in around him.

"G'night, Dad."

"Good night, son," George said softly. After only a second's hesitation, he bent to place a quick kiss on his boy's forehead. He turned around and, carefully, so as not to lift his feet and impale himself on some other lethal contraption masquerading as a child's toy, left the room.

George did not return directly to his own bed. Instead, he tiptoed past his door, down the stairs, through the living room, then down into his basement workshop. He turned on the lights with a midair flick of his fingers, poked through the contents of a plastic cup in search of a useable quill, then rifled through a stack of parchment rolls for an appropriately small piece. Once he'd assembled the necessary tools for correspondence, he summoned the stool from the other side of the room and began to write.

---

Ron,

Next time you do a raid on Malfoy Manor, I want to volunteer. The sooner, the better.

- G.

---

"Sorry, mate," George muttered quietly as Horatio, the laziest family owl in existence, protested against being pressed into service. He fastened the note to the bird's leg, then opened one of the workshop's windows. "At least it's a lovely night for a jaunt to London," he argued with the owl's irritated expression.

George could have sworn the owl made a very rude noise as he launched himself into the air and flapped his great wings silently. As he watched the beast disappear into the night, it occurred to him that the rest of the world, most likely including his brother's family, was sound asleep. Or if not asleep....

Maybe I'll get a bit of revenge and interrupt the two of them for a change, he chuckled to himself.

*

The following Saturday was a quintessential English autumn day: thoroughly soggy. Janie and Joey were outdoors, brightly visible in their ironically sunny yellow rain macs and wellies. Annie kept an eye on them as they sloshed in the puddles outside while she hung the laundry on indoor lines in front of the fire.

Inside, Mole Hill was peacefully quiet. Merrie had gone to the Jordans' for a sleepover the night before and had yet to return. The twins were seated at the dining table, diligently finishing the weekend's homework. Annie was about to call out for Winky and suggest they start making lunch when the flames in the fireplace suddenly flared a brilliant emerald green.

"Who is it?" Fred asked.

"Dunno," Annie replied, stumped. They weren't expecting Merrie back until supper.

"Halloo!" Ron's voice called out from the flames. "Everybody decent?"

Annie heard another familiar chuckle emanating from the fire as well.

"Uncle Ron! Uncle Harry!" the twins cried excitedly, recognizing the voices at the same time as Annie did. They ran to Annie's side, eager to greet their surprise visitors.

"Come on through," Annie hollered toward the fireplace.

Ron burst out of the fire in the next moment, calling out, "Oi, George!" Typically not paying attention to where he was going, he took three bounding steps out of the hearth and promptly collided with the first line of laundry. In patented Ron fashion, he somehow managed to get tangled up in a clothesline full of Annie's undergarments.

Harry's initial chuckle quickly morphed into a full laugh. He sidestepped around his struggling friend, walking around the spectacle to stand beside Annie and the twins, who were all staring gape-mouthed at Ron.

Ron squawked like he was being attacked by one of Ginny's finest Bat-Bogey Hexes, batting bra straps and lace-trimmed underpants away from his head. His great arms spun like windmills, and nearly one entire line of clothing bounced into the air, then rained to the floor.

Harry was now bent over, hands on his knees, laughing. The twins began to giggle at their comical uncle, as well. Annie's hands were perched on her hips, however, her mouth pursed, thoroughly unamused.

Finally standing still amidst a sea of damp women's underwear, Ron suddenly noticed a bra on his shoulder. Screeching, he threw it off of himself.

"Oh, honestly, Ron! They're not lethal!" Annie barked.

"They don't bite," Harry cried, his voice registering an octave higher than normal from laughter.

"Just... a bit... startled..." Ron stammered. He glanced down to the floor for an instant to survey the damage, then his eyes flew skyward in embarrassment. "Sorry... about your... things," Ron mumbled, the last word uttered in a mousy squeak.

Harry was now laughing hysterically, unable to catch his breath. The twins were laughing as well, perhaps more at Uncle Harry's merriment rather than Uncle Ron's haplessness, at this point.

"Well, put them back where you found them!" Annie demanded, aggravated that a good bit of her morning's work had been undone, as well as by Ron's ridiculously immature response.

Ron withdrew his wand from his pocket.

"No fair! You never let us clean up messes with magic," Art whined to his mother.

"Just because you can do something with magic doesn't mean you should, Uncle Ron," Fred scolded.

"Uncle Ron is a grown-up, boys," Annie replied. Then she turned back to her brother-in-law. "Presumably, that is."

But Harry was far from finished with his fun. "Expelliarmus!" he cried, and Ron's wand flew out of his hand and into Harry's. "Now, do set a good example for our nephews, Ron," Harry taunted his friend.

Ron, face flaming red and pouting, bit his lower lip as he bent down and began to gather Annie's underwear off the floor. Gingerly holding each item with fingertips only, he shot murderous glares at Harry for several minutes while he hung them all back on the line. Annie would have preferred Ron to have used magic, actually. The job would have been finished quickly and without him having to touch... everything. At least Ron wasn't trying to whine his way out of it in front of the boys, she conceded.

Meanwhile, Harry staggered toward a chair and fell into it. Doubled over with laughter, he wrapped his arms around his chest and began hiccupping. "Worse... than... spiders... are they?"

Annie smacked Harry upside the head. "Grow up!" she snapped.

Her scolding did nothing to abate the hilarity for Harry, however. He continued laughing, occasionally wiping tears from his cheeks, watching Ron hang their sister-in-law's panties and bras on a clothesline.

Annie turned back to Ron, who looked like he was about to implode with humiliation. For some reason, this irritated her immensely. Who the hell does he think he is? "It's not like you've never seen women's underwear before!" Annie barked, exasperated. "Or do you expect me to believe Hermione doesn't wear knickers?"

"Oh, God!" Harry wheezed and launched into a new round of hysterics, sliding off the chair and onto the floor with a thud. "H'mione...noknickers...."

Mercifully finished with his task at last, Ron marched over to where Harry was sprawled, yanked him up off the floor, and punched him hard on the arm. He shoved his hand roughly into Harry's jacket pocket and retrieved his wand.

"Ow," Harry protested, finally able to take a full breath.

"Show's over, boys," Annie said, shooing the twins back to their studies. She turned back to her brothers-in-law, eyes closed and pinching the bridge of her nose (a habit she'd picked up from George). "What do you want, you two?" she asked with feigned patience.

"Where's George?" Ron asked through gritted teeth.

Not here, thank God, Annie thought, or you'd've been jinxed to kingdom come for that little bit of nonsense. She shot Harry a glare as he continued to periodically erupt in twitters and giggles. They were apparently an involuntary side effect of his previous paroxysm of mirth. "He's at the factory. Why?"

Ron shook his head. "Official business," he replied.

Annie searched both men's faces. All traces of amusement and discomfort were gone instantly, replaced by serious focus. "I probably don't like the sound of that, do I?" she sighed.

Ron and Harry both shrugged noncommittally, giving nothing away.

"At the factory, you say?" Ron repeated.

Annie nodded. "Will he at least be home for supper?" she asked.

"That's up to him," Ron replied.

Harry followed Ron back into the fireplace, and they were gone an instant later.

*

George had finally identified the uncooperative loose bolt after an hour of searching for the rattling noise. Lying on his back under a large, formidable-looking piece of machinery, he aimed his wand at the blasted thing. "Turbonis," he growled with extreme prejudice.

"George!"

Startled, George cracked his skull twice: first against the underbelly of the machine above him, then in rebound against the concrete floor below. "Fuck!" he groaned as he saw stars.

"Is this what you do all day? Lie about like a flobberworm?" he heard Harry tease him from the vicinity of his feet. "Must be nice," he chuckled. "Some of us have real jobs, you know."

"Get out from under there, you stupid git," Ron said, kicking the soles of George's shoes. "Time to do some real work for a change."

You miserable little...!

George shot an angry jinx at Ron's legs and felt slightly mollified when his brother howled in pain. Although he doubted anything could compare to the agony in his own head at the moment.

"What the bloody hell are you two arses doing here?" George snarled as he wriggled his way out from under the machine.

"Why only me and not him, too?" Ron whined, jabbing his finger at Harry. He was sitting on the floor, trying unsuccessfully to counteract the burning sensation on his skin. "Why is it always me?"

"The whingy wheel gets the hex?" George muttered under his breath. Sighing with irritated dissatisfaction, he reversed the spell.

All the while, Harry had been giggling like a schoolboy.

"What's gotten into you?" George demanded, annoyed.

Harry grinned like a cat-eating canary, still giggling. "Be nice to him! Ron's out of sorts because he's just been attacked by Annie's underwear."

George stared hard at Ron.

"Not my fault!" Ron spluttered. "I didn't exactly step out of the Floo into your house expecting to find it transformed into a bloody lingerie shop, did I?"

George continued to glare silently at his brother, who looked nervously away.

"Tell him how you tried one on," Harry goaded his best friend.

"Shut up, Harry!" Ron cried, scrambling to his feet.

Harry turned to George with a surprisingly mischievous glint in his eyes. "And then he started touchin' all of 'em," he added.

"Enough!" Ron shoved Harry forcefully.

Harry stumbled and crashed against the side of the machine, guffawing.

"I didn't, George! I swear!" Ron insisted in a squeaky voice.

"You're a bloody idiot," George growled as he slowly clambered to his feet, batting away Ron's hastily proffered, supplicant hand.

"Runs in the family, then," Ron snapped petulantly.

George gingerly probed his head with his fingers, finding two diametrically opposed goose eggs were rapidly forming on his forehead and rear skull. He conjured two ice packs, then applied them to his injuries. "You've spent the morning pawing through my wife's underwear then tracking me down here why?" he grumbled.

"Oh, right," Ron replied, his mood brightening instantaneously. "You said you wanted to come along on the next raid. Ring Annie and see if she'll let you come out and play with us tonight," he said tauntingly.

*

"I must confess, I wasn't expecting you to accommodate my request quite so soon," George said.

He stood in the darkness outside Malfoy Manor with five other figures, all of them dressed in black from head to toe. Every inch of their clothing was magically charmed to repel offensive spells, thanks to his patented and extensive Weasley's Magical Defensive line (now almost universally referred to as WMD).

"Coincidence, actually," Harry chuckled softly. "We'd just gotten word from an operative the day before your letter arrived."

"At four in the bloody morning, thanks ever so," Ron grumbled.

George joined Harry in quiet laughter. Ah, revenge is sweet, indeed!

"Anyway, it's a flimsy lead at best, but we've got a secret weapon with us tonight," Harry said.

"Secret weapon?" George asked.

"A hotshot rookie ward buster," Ron explained. "We're hoping to find a few more of the bastard's secret hiding places tonight."

"What's he up to this time?" George asked.

"Nasty business, as usual," Ron hissed. "You know all about that rot involving Umbridge and the Hogwarts' Board from this spring, right?"

George nodded, feeling an angry heat begin to well up inside of him. Delores Umbridge had made a bid to seat herself on the school's governing board. He'd laughed it off at first, confident the mad cow was harmlessly flapping her gums. The idea was utterly preposterous – Umbridge on the Governing Board of Hogwarts!

But then articles supporting her nomination began getting published in the Prophet. People in Diagon Alley began talking about how she'd supposedly changed and what a wonderful, inspirational example she'd now set as a reformed (and tragically misled, according to her own revisionist history) woman. "She ought to be given a second chance!" proclaimed the gullible. "She's paid her debt to society and wants to be of use now."

Some bloody idiot had even come into the Wheezes shop in Hogsmeade, asking George to sign a petition in support of her campaign. George's reply had been as vehement as it had been impolite, to say the least. The git had been unceremoniously tossed out into the street on his arse.

But it was only after Headmistress McGonagall personally wrote to every single Hogwarts student's family, urging them to oppose Umbridge and reminding them of the horrific disciplinary methods she'd implemented during her stint as High Inquisitor, that people started to come to their senses. In an effort to throw his support behind his former Head of House, over the past summer, George had been among the first and loudest to proclaim he'd not only withdraw his children but also his generous financial support of the school as well if Umbridge was appointed.

That was when Malfoy began to surreptitiously rear his ugly head. George and his father had suspected he'd been lurking somewhere behind Umbridge since the very beginning, salivating greedily at the thought of having a puppet on the Governing Board – a position he'd once held himself but was now barred from. He'd always used his money to smooth things over, to cover the rotten stink with perfume, to disguise the poison with honey.

"He's got to be buying the positive press, but why?" George had asked his father one day last summer.

"Doesn't Draco have a boy about Joey's age?" Arthur had pointed out.

"A bit younger, I think." Then George had snorted. "But why would they even bother with Hogwarts this go 'round? Why not just send the little creep to Durmstrang where he belongs?"

"Now, George, be charitable. The faults of the father don't necessarily pass to the son," Arthur had countered.

"Somebody forgot to explain that little gem of wisdom to Draco," George had grumbled. "His kid doesn't stand a chance."

Arthur had grimaced. "It certainly would appear that Lucius is looking to get his fingers in yet another pie of influence once again. His name still carries quite a bit of weight in the Ministry."

"Which doesn't say much for the Ministry idiots," George had sneered.

"Kingsley knows, and he's watching the situation closely," Arthur had assured his son. "He's put the Auror Department on notice. There's a fine line between legal influence and corruption, to be sure, but he's determined to root out the latter absolutely."

Yet even under the gaze of such auspicious, official eyes, as the new school term began that autumn, questions began to surface about McGonagall's age and health. Mutterings were heard about how she had cooperated with the infamous Headmaster Snape in his torturing of students during the war (conveniently forgetting it was the Carrows who'd been responsible and McGonagall who'd fought them tooth and nail). Rumors spread about her current lack of adequate control at the school.

Utter hogwash, the lot, George railed silently. As if anyone who'd ever met the woman could question her authority! Or her moral conviction. She'd received the Order of Merlin, First Class for her war efforts and subsequent leadership at the school, for heaven's sake!

Conveniently for the suspected but as yet unproven Umbridge-Malfoy alliance, unrest began to spread throughout the centaur population of the Forbidden Forest at the same time. Seemingly from out of the blue, the centaurs insisted they were under attack from Wizarding Britain – that one of their own had been murdered in cold blood at the hands of a wizard – and threatened retaliation against whatever human was at hand at the moment unless the guilty party submitted to their own brand of justice.

All eyes had turned to Hogwarts in the days that followed.

McGonagall had insisted there was a peaceful solution to be found. Personally heading up the negotiations with the centaurs, she'd worked to convince them that no one at Hogwarts had anything to do with any attack. She'd offered both her own services as well as those of the Auror Department to discover who was responsible. The Ministry had promised to do what they could to apprehend the perpetrator as soon as possible. Hermione'd even added her guarantee that every available legal resource at her disposal would be provided to the prosecution.

The centaurs were understandably skeptical. They had little faith in the humanly-fallible Ministry that had betrayed them so often. But grudgingly, they had agreed to a temporary truce.

As a show of good faith, a small team of un-wanded Aurors – including Harry and Ron – had ventured into the forest, gathering what evidence there was to be found at the scene of the crime. No body was recovered – the centaurs claimed it had been removed from the Forest, the act of which had been a desecration in and of itself. Finally, Chief Auror Potter had announced at a press conference that clues had indeed been recovered, and leads were being pursued, but that to comment further on any details might tip off the guilty before they were apprehended.

But the damage to McGonagall's reputation had already been done. It made no logical sense, but since when did mob mentality ever bend to logic? The whole mess had happened in her back garden, as it were, and on her watch. Parents began to panic. Children were withdrawn from the school and terrified letters published in the paper. In one fell swoop, McGonagall had lost the confidence of the general public.

Just last week, Delores Umbridge had stepped forward with a plan of her own to deal with the "Centaur Problem," as it was now referred to. She insisted she'd decried the presence of the centaurs all along, exhorted for years about the dangers they posed. Reminding everyone how she'd been kidnapped and tortured by them herself, she proposed a new plan: forcible relocation of the British centaur population to a new reservation on an island in the middle of the North Sea.

"They don't appreciate proper civilization," Umbridge had explained in the latest Prophet interview, her horrible photograph tittering girlishly. "If they don't wish to live peacefully beside decent humans, then by all means, they should leave. A deserted island ought to seem like paradise to them, I should think. They certainly have no business living anywhere near a school, for goodness' sake – a fact which I have frequently mentioned in numerous unanswered complaints to the current Headmistress.

"After all, we must always think of the children, mustn't we?" Umbridge had urged plaintively.

"Yeah, I remember," George growled in distaste. "Malfoy's stink is all over that mess."

"Whatever you think you know, I promise you, it's worse," Ron insisted.

"Ever heard of gris-gris?" Harry asked.

George was taken aback. He had heard of such a thing, but only in whispered tones from his dodgier connections for potions ingredients. Dabbling in voodoo often proved to be a very slippery slope and could quickly go from comparatively innocent love charms to Dark stuff, indeed. The talismans and amulets often contained horrific items: body parts – human or otherwise – were considered powerfully magical in the religion.

"What does that have to do with anything?" George demanded, fearing he already knew the answer.

"Apparently, someone in Britain is sending out feelers, claiming to have centaur parts for sale," Harry said, his voice hard.

"Three guesses who it is, and the first two don't count," Ron added in an equally stony voice.

George nearly took a step backward, literally reeling as the connections clicked together in his mind. "Malfoy murdered the centaur? To get back at McGonagall for opposing Umbridge?" he hissed, horrified.

"Malfoy needed someone slimy enough to do his bidding on the Board but with a public face that could be shined up," Ron explained. "The pink bitch was perfect for the job."

"But Umbridge hated her time at Hogwarts. Ever wondered what could have possibly induced her to consider having anything to do with it again?" Harry asked, unnerving George by glaring at him with a green fury in his eyes George'd never seen before.

"I'm betting the centaur part of it was Umbridge's requirement. Her reward, I suppose, for cooperating with the plan. The fact that all of it's causing problems for McGonagall right now is just icing on the cake," Ron spat.

"Nothing's proven... yet," Harry replied darkly.

Monstrous! George thought, his mind roiling. The bastard's greed knows no bounds! It wasn't enough to murder for political gain? He had to desecrate the body and attempt to make a financial profit as well?!

"It'll be a war," George gasped. "If the centaurs find out the victim was...." Dismembered, he gulped silently. Then sold off as parts!? Parceled out to the highest bidders? Put to unspeakable uses!?

"If it's true, and if they find out, you're right," Ron said pointedly.

George looked at his younger brother, startled by the jaded tone of his voice. "You aren't going to just let Malfoy and Umbridge get away with it!" George cried. "For the sake of political expediency?" The centaurs have a right to justice, just like anyone else!

"Why do you think we're here tonight?" Ron snapped. "They're not getting away with anything," he snarled.

Harry waved the group to huddle up. "Is everyone ready?" he asked. "Are there any questions about the plan tonight?"

George shook his head along with the rest of the team. He understood what was expected of him and now looked forward to it more than ever. They're not getting away with anything, Ron's voice repeated in his head.

"I want everything tonight to go by... the... book," Harry directed, slipping into command mode. "Let's ensure everything we find will be admissible before the Wizengamot.

"Sykes, Petersen – you'll go with the Weasleys. And all of you remember, you do not recognize Landis. None of the Malfoys have much talent for Legilimency – Occlumency is more their style – but we have no idea who else might be in there, so keep it clear in your mind. Take her into custody with everyone else. She won't be speaking English, as part of her cover, but she'll understand everything you say."

"Understood, sir," a young woman answered him, the young man beside her nodding as well.

Harry turned to another young man standing a little away from the group, wand drawn and moving seemingly at random. His eyes were closed, yet it was clear he was intently focused on the mansion before them.

"Have you broken through the wards yet, Abercrombie?" Harry asked.

"Nearly," replied the little fellow who barely looked old enough to be of age. "I can feel it's linked to an alarm of some sort. When I break this last bit, they'll know it," he warned his superior.

"Right," Harry said. "Let me know the instant you're through." He turned back to the group. "We'll Apparate into the main hall on my signal."

Ron turned to his little patrol. "We're to fan out, cover all four floors. Nobody goes anywhere alone – got it? Round up everyone you find, disarm them, and bring them back to the main hall. There's a good chance the little boy is in there – no spells on him, no matter what."

Sykes, Petersen, and George all nodded.

George's pulse was racing and his hands sweaty with excitement. He'd just been handed a legal excuse to exact revenge on Malfoy, and he was planning to make the most of the opportunity. Rotten, stinking, filthy excuse for a human being anyway....

"I'm through!" Abercrombie hissed.

An unnaturally loud wail pierced the night in the same instant.

"Now!" Harry shouted, and all six wizards disappeared into thin air.

Seconds later, George found himself inside the darkened mansion. Ron shouted at the other two to take the ground floor, then waved for George to follow him up the stairs. Harry and the one called Abercrombie were already up the stairs, nearly toward the landing.

Shouts, bangs, and flashes of lights erupted in several places at once as the house itself attempted to repel the invasion. The Auror force encountered no human resistance, though.

Is the place empty? George wondered. Were they tipped off? Have they scarpered off like the cowards they've so often proven themselves to be?

George and Ron silently worked their way down the hallway, casting revealing spells along the corridor until they finally came across an occupied bedroom.

"What the hell is going on?" Draco roared as George and Ron kicked the door in and disarmed the occupants of the bed.

"Just another house call, Ferret," Ron barked with glee, summoning the couple's wands and pocketing them beneath his shield-protected jumper. "You ought to be used to this by now."

"There's absolutely no excuse for a Weasley to be in my home, ever!" Draco snarled. The woman in bed beside him clung to him. She whimpered in protest as he roughly extricated himself from her clutches, then leaped out of bed with a haughty snap of the sheets. "Your kind belongs in the stable with the other livestock, Weasel. You will pay for this! I'll have your job! My father...."

George bristled at the conceited gall of the little prick. The Malfoy superiority complex was a well-known phenomenon – by the Weasley clan, especially. But... "your kind"!? Really?

Ron leveled his wand an inch from Draco's pointy little nose. "Save it for the Wizengamot, Ferret. They might give a shit about your precious pedigree," Ron taunted him. "I don't."

The cowardly man's indignation fled in an instant. Draco bit his lip to keep it from quivering.

George instinctively spun around toward the door at the sound of a baby crying. He poked his head out, attempting to locate the source. A few moments later, a young woman he presumed was the nanny came running down the hall, arms full of a bundle, jabbering in an unfamiliar language.

"Scorpius!" the woman in bed wailed.

The nanny bolted into the room carrying the baby, still yammering. George couldn't understand the words, but her tone made it clear: she was confused and terrified.

"Speak in English, you stupid fucking cow!" Draco bellowed as his wife, Astoria, gathered the child from the distraught woman.

"Enough!" Ron barked. A second later, Draco's hands were magically bound together in front of his body. "Come with us, all of you," Ron directed.

Astoria slid off the satin-bedecked bed. The little boy was now howling in protest. George took up a position behind them, escorting her and the nanny out the door.

"If you harm a hair on their heads, I'll kill you," Draco hissed.

"You're hardly in a position to threaten, Ferret, but by all means, do feel free to say something to further incriminate yourself in front of all these witnesses," Ron retorted.

Downstairs, Ron and George met up with the rest of the team as they delivered their prisoners to the agreed upon rendezvous point.

Lucius Malfoy was there already, sneering and seething. "What is the meaning of this invasion? I demand to speak to Minister Shacklebolt. You will all be brought up on charges!" he raged.

The nanny kept blubbering in her native language despite Draco's demands for her silence and subsequent threats of punishment for her disobedience. Astoria was proving herself incompetent in soothing baby Scorpius, who continued his crying. All in all, it was a cacophonous mess.

"Shut up, all of you!" Harry shouted.

As if he'd cast a Silencing Charm, merciful quiet descended. George wondered if it was, in fact, some sort of spell.

Harry leveled his gaze at Lucius. "You, especially."

Lucius shook his head and shoulders, as if attempting to cast something off.

"Is this everyone in the house?" Harry asked.

The one named Petersen responded. "All floors are now accounted for, sir."

"Where's the mother?" Harry asked.

"Mr. Malfoy claims she's abroad at the moment," Sykes replied.

Harry stared hard into Lucius's eyes for several moments. Lucius glared right back.

"You barely know what the truth is anymore," Harry muttered at last, disgusted.

Lucius sneered once more. "I survived the Dark Lord, and you think you can see anything in my mind I don't want you to see?"

Harry switched his focus onto Draco.

Draco screwed his eyes shut. "Get out, Potter!" he yelled.

"Concentrate, Draco!" Lucius growled quietly.

A moment later, Draco roared in fury.

"Narcissa's in Haiti?" Harry stated rather than asked, his tone smug. "What a remarkable coincidence."

"Draco!" Lucius scolded his son with an angry hiss. Then he turned to Harry. "Since when does the Ministry condone such questionable interrogation tactics?" he snarled with indignant disdain.

Harry turned back to Lucius. "Tell me what I want to know. Where is the body?"

There it was again – that peculiar commanding voice. In all George's previous dealings with Harry in combat situations, he'd proven himself an excellent leader by simply being himself. People did what he told them to do out of respect and admiration, secure in the knowledge he'd never ask them to do anything that wasn't necessary, or that he wasn't willing to do himself.

But this was entirely different, dealing with an antagonistic force. George was now convinced Harry was using some sort of compulsion spellwork, almost like Veritaserum in charm form, if possible. George had never dreamt such Dark-leaning, aggressive magic could be legally used by the Aurors. And if it had been anybody but Harry doing it – a person whose morality George trusted implicitly – he'd have been scared shitless just knowing it existed.

Lucius appeared to have some difficulty responding now. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied, stammering slightly.

"I am authorized to ask once more. A second refusal to cooperate will result in a full search of the premises," Harry said softly, warningly.

"You won't find a damn thing, Potter!" Draco bellowed in arrogance.

Harry ignored Draco completely. Staring hard into Lucius' eyes, he asked once more, "Where is the body?"

Several long, quiet moments passed as the two men glared at each other. Lucius began to squirm slightly, then emitted a quiet grunt of effort. "Are you hard of hearing or simply stupid, Potter?" he retorted, a little out of breath. But the haughty sneer was gone now, and he was beginning to sweat.

"Abercrombie?" Harry barked.

"Yes, sir."

"Your report?"

Abercrombie responded by rattling off a list. "Numerous hidden wall niches in the library and the drawing room, next door. One bunker off the master bedroom. Underground passageways leading from the bunker, butler's pantry, and library, all ending beyond the hedge to the west. Oh, and a large chamber below the drawing room."

Harry snorted. "Yes, I'm acquainted with that particular room."

"This invasion of privacy is illegal!" Lucius shouted at everyone but Harry. "You'll all be sacked by morning if you do not leave this instant!"

Harry wore a faint, smug smile. "Getting nervous now, are we? Last chance to cooperate, Lucius...."

Lucius chewed on his lip.

"Father?" Draco asked, his voice unsure.

His son's faltering voice seemed to strengthen Lucius' resolve. "You won't find it!" he hissed.

"Where is it?" Harry bellowed, and everyone in the room flinched.

Lucius stood pointedly silent, staring at the wall across the room.

Harry took a deep breath. In a calm, collected voice, he began issuing directives. "Break the wards, Abercrombie. Every single one. Sykes, get the women and child out of here."

Sykes nodded curtly, then took the other two women by the arm and escorted the nanny and Astoria out of the room.

"Where are you taking them?" Draco roared.

Harry turned toward his schoolboy nemesis. "Into custody, of course," he replied evenly. "You remember how this works, don't you, Draco?"

Harry faced the other men under his command. "Petersen, Abercrombie, come with me. We'll search every drawer, every box, every closet, every cupboard. We'll rip up the floors and tear out the walls. Be on your guard – the human residents aren't the only nasty things in this house."

He turned to his brothers-in-law. "Ron, George...."

"We'll keep an eye on the Ferret and the Snake," Ron assured Harry without him having to issue further directives.

The house was quiet and their prisoners relatively docile (discounting the murderous glares, of course) for nearly half an hour. The Malfoys stood with their hands bound, leaning against adjacent walls of the room, under Ron's and George's watchful eyes and drawn wands.

It was at that point when someone from the underground level shouted, "Mr. Potter, sir! I think I might have found something here!"

Lucius took advantage of a moment's distraction by lunging toward the room's exit.

George blocked him with a body slam that sent Lucius crashing back against the wall. He shoved his wand up, jabbing the point of it into Lucius' throat. He saw Lucius' eyes dart around the room, searching for any weapon.

"Go for it," George snarled. "I beg you to give me a bloody reason...."

"George!" Ron barked.

"Look the other way, Ron," George suggested, glancing sideways at his brother for only a millisecond before his vengeful gaze returned to his quarry. "Ever heard of karma, Malfoy?" he said, his voice filled with soft menace. He leaned into the odious, quintessential Slytherin and increased the pressure on his wand until a large crater now formed on soft, privileged flesh of Lucius' neck.

Lucius glared back silently, baring his teeth in a large grimace.

"No? Too enlightened a concept for you?" George taunted him. "How about the golden fucking rule, then? Do unto others as you'd have done to you? In that case, how many Crucios does the world owe you, Malfoy?"

Lucius only sneered. "Don't forget, you've got to mean it. Unforgivables aren't the sort of things for children to play at. You don't have the balls, boy."

George's free hand darted up and curled around Lucius' throat, causing the man's head to bang against the wall. He drew back his wand, aiming right between the eyes. This was the monster who had been behind it all. For Art's nightmares. For the ambush at Bill's wedding. For Ginny's ordeal in the Chamber of Secrets. For the attempt on Annie's life....

Lucius flinched as George's fingers tightened. From somewhere in his mind surfaced an age- old, long-buried vision of Malfoy crumpling before him, writhing on the ground in pain, begging for mercy. No... no mercy for you....

"But what if I do mean it, Malfoy?" George hissed so quietly it was barely audible.

"George!" Ron barked again.

George came back to himself in that instant. His brother's voice reminded him of the husband and father he now was, of the wounded, imperfect, yet decent human being he'd always attempted to be. Nothing was worth losing what he'd made of his life since the war. He would not ruin his mind, his soul, for this piece of shit.

Lucius snickered smugly as George's wand hand dropped.

Fury flaring, George hauled off and punched Lucius in the nose, then grabbed him by the lapels of his dressing gown and slammed him against the wall, knocking a portrait off in the process. The other paintings began screaming and shouting in protest.

"What I don't have is a slimy, rotten cesspool for a soul," George growled over the racket. "And I don't have a single fucking thing to prove to you."

Suddenly, magic erupted. Draco somehow managed to summon his and his wife's confiscated wands out of Ron's pocket during the distracting scuffle between his father and George. Aiming at George, he shouted, "Crucio!"

George managed to dodge most of the force of the spell and deflect the rest with a hasty Shield Charm, but still staggered back a bit as sharp little stabs of pain stung him all over.

Taking advantage of his guards' surprise, Lucius threw his body forward, knocking George to the floor. Stumbling, he staggered toward the doorway.

"Father!" Draco screamed, heaving his wife's wand in Lucius' direction.

But instead of catching it, Lucius' bound yet flailing arms batted the wand to the floor.

"Attero animus!" Ron bellowed, wand leveled at Draco.

Draco's eyes glazed over, and he sank to the floor, head lolling. His wand clattered to the floor beside him.

George scrambled to his feet just in time to launch himself toward Lucius, attempting to head him off at the door. "Stupefy!" he thundered, blasting the hex across the room. His aim was off, though. It missed Lucius, but did manage to hit the wayward wand, scattering it across the floor in the second before Lucius' hand closed around it.

"Corpus ingravesco!" Ron shouted.

The spell hit its target broadside. Lucius crashed heavily onto the floor with a guttural groan, unable to move.

Ron dashed to the immobilized prisoners, binding them with multiple spells and gags this time, while George, still recovering from Draco's attempted curse – his joints were throbbing at the moment – staggered around the room, collecting the wands. Together, they shoved the father and son into a seated position on the floor, backs propped against the wall.

"Everything all right up there?" Harry called out from the room below them.

"Under control, mate!" Ron shouted back.

George sank heavily into a chair, grunting in discomfort as he did so.

Ron dug into another jumper pocket, withdrew a vial, and handed it to George. "Analgesic potion. It'll take the edge off the effects of the Cruciatus."

George gratefully took the proffered potion and downed it. As the throbbing began to subside, he looked quizzically at his little brother. "Where the hell did you learn those spells?" he demanded in his usual teasing, older-brother voice he nearly always used when addressing either Ron or Ginny. "I've never heard of them."

Ron grinned smugly. "One of the perks of spending your time with Hermione thumpin' Granger, that," he quipped.

George smirked, recalling how the fact that Hermione had chosen to keep her maiden name after marrying Ron had made their mother do her nut. "Not even bloody hyphenated!" Molly had shrieked for several years afterward whenever the subject had inadvertently come up. More than a few Weasleys had their noses a little out of joint for that one, actually. What was so bad about the Weasley name, after all? But then again, Hermione's so damn touchy about any whiff of patriarchal pure-blood traditional bullshit, George grumbled silently.

"She taught you that?" George asked aloud. If she did, you were most likely on the receiving end, he thought with amusement as a vision of all six-and-a-half feet of Ron crashing to the linoleum in front of the fridge in their little London flat came to mind.

"Not exactly," Ron confessed with a chuckle. "She's always got her nose in some bloody book or another, and you know how she can prattle on. Most of the time, I ignore it," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "All that elves' rights rubbish...." Suddenly remembering who he was talking to, he rushed to add, "Not that I don't agree, mind you. But she never gives it a bloody rest, does she?"

"Back to the subject at hand..." George prompted his mentally wandering brother impatiently.

"Oh, right. Well, every so often, I'll notice she's spoutin' off something remotely interesting or useful about an old spell that's fallen out of favor or the like. Or, once in a while, I'll thumb through one of those moldy old books of hers.

"It's not that they're all that powerful," he explained. "It's more the element of surprise, actually. That, and nobody remembers the counterspells anymore," he added with a grin George was confident would have earned him a swat from either his mother or his wife.

"So, you're a parasite, really," George countered.

Ron pasted on a mock-pensive expression, gazing at the ceiling and stroking his chin. "I prefer to think of myself as a sponge, soaking up all that knowledge at my fingertips," he said, wiggling his fingers and winking at the innuendo.

George shook his head, pretending to disapprove. "I see you have Hermione to thank for your glorious Auror reputation, then."

"I'm the one casting the bloody spells when it counts!" Ron protested in his characteristic whine.

"Which you'd never have the gumption or intelligence to find on your own, prat," George insisted.

"I'm damn good at my job!" Ron argued, bristling.

George realized then he'd gone a bit too far with the teasing. The matter of Ron's career as a subordinate to Harry in the Auror Department could sometimes prove to be a touchy subject with him. There were always the whispers and rumors that he was still riding Harry's coattails, even now.

Not that he had ever really done so. Ron was an adequately intelligent, perfectly capable wizard gifted with an occasional flash of insightful brilliance – in other words, he was no different from the rest of the magical world. In any other scenario, he'd be accepted or rejected completely on his own merit, succeeding or failing in life with little public notice.

But it just so happened he was best mates with Harry friggin' Potter. No matter how much the Boy Who Lived tried to avoid it, the spotlight always shone on him, leaving everyone else around him in the shadow. On some level, Ron had to have known he'd always be the sidekick in a friendship like that. Still, George reckoned, it had to rankle sometimes.

"Not all of us can save the world selling Dungbombs and exploding underpants, can we?" Ron snapped testily.

"Only the cleverest ones," George parried, carefully softening both his voice and his smile.

"You stole half those ideas from your wife anyhow," Ron countered, a grin beginning to turn up the corners of his mouth once more.

George could tell from his tone that Ron had forgiven him. "I've never denied it," he chuckled.

Ron laughed along with him. "Maybe that's another thing that runs in the family," he suggested.

"What's that?" George asked.

Ron beamed with mischief. "We may not be geniuses, but Weasley men consistently marry above their intelligence."