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Title: Goodbye
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: George/Fred
Warnings: Character death, contemplated incest and necrophilia
Genre: Horror/Gen
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: George is finding it hard to let go.
Author's Notes: This was supposed to be for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hp_darkarts's Taboo Kink Fest, but it was both too late and too low a rating. Still, it gave me a break from my SPN MPreg Big Bang (the fic of the everlasting headache), so I'm posting it anyway.
He doesn’t look like he’s sleeping. His skin is grey and bloodless. Cold. When he slept, his lips would be flushed red and his chest would rise and fall and he would never be so still. He was a kicker, a blanket-hog. He was never so fat. Under the sheet Madame Pomphrey so kindly covered him with, his belly has stretched and swollen, and his gaping mouth releases a fetid stink into the air. Fred’s morning breath was never this bad, he thinks, and feels guilty.
He still feels guilty, even as he points his wand at Fred’s face and mutters the spell pulled out of one of the books he nicked from the ruined library. Nothing happens at first, and he’s almost tempted to repeat it, but then Fred’s eyes open. They’re all wrong in the wandlight. His pupils are pinpricks and the blue of his irises is milky-pale, but George’s heart pounds in his chest when he realises that his brother – this remnant of his brother – is looking at him again.
“Alright, Freddie?” he asks.
There’s no response, of course. Inferi can’t talk. They’re puppets made of human flesh, slaves to the will of the one who resurrected them. He reaches out to touch, and grimaces at the feel of him. Fred’s familiar skin has become something alien. Cold and clammy; soft in places it never was before. He’s rotting away under George’s fingers, waiting in line for burial.
He leans down and kisses Fred’s mouth. It’s repulsive, and he backs up quickly, turning away to gag and to hide his watering eyes from the vacant stare that follows him.
He came to say goodbye. Everyone he knows has told him he should move on and let go; he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t want to say goodbye. He wants his brother back. His twin. The bloated thing on the floor – not enough beds left for the living, let alone the dead – covered in a sheet and staring at him isn’t his brother. It’s a slave wearing an approximation of Fred’s skin. He could do anything to it.
He could make it get up. Make it rip itself apart and show him what Fred was made of. He could make it get to its knees and tilt its face up as he fucked his fist over it; make it bend over and wait as he thrust in. He could do anything, even bring the drunken dares and suggestive looks he and Fred had shared to their unnatural conclusion.
He could do it, but he won’t. Fuck it, even though he wants to, he won’t. He cancels the spell before he can change his mind. Fred’s eyes stay open, still daring him, and he reaches out again to try and press them closed before draping the sheet back over his swollen face. He’s got to get some rest. The funeral is in the morning, and while he’s expected to look like crap, he’s also expected to be able to help hold his mother upright.
He turns away. He makes it to the door before he hears the rustling. He looks back along the rows of the decomposing dead, and sees a single milk-blue eye staring back at him from under a slipped sheet.
He swallows. Fred can’t say goodbye either.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: George/Fred
Warnings: Character death, contemplated incest and necrophilia
Genre: Horror/Gen
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: George is finding it hard to let go.
Author's Notes: This was supposed to be for
hp_darkarts's Taboo Kink Fest, but it was both too late and too low a rating. Still, it gave me a break from my SPN MPreg Big Bang (the fic of the everlasting headache), so I'm posting it anyway.He doesn’t look like he’s sleeping. His skin is grey and bloodless. Cold. When he slept, his lips would be flushed red and his chest would rise and fall and he would never be so still. He was a kicker, a blanket-hog. He was never so fat. Under the sheet Madame Pomphrey so kindly covered him with, his belly has stretched and swollen, and his gaping mouth releases a fetid stink into the air. Fred’s morning breath was never this bad, he thinks, and feels guilty.
He still feels guilty, even as he points his wand at Fred’s face and mutters the spell pulled out of one of the books he nicked from the ruined library. Nothing happens at first, and he’s almost tempted to repeat it, but then Fred’s eyes open. They’re all wrong in the wandlight. His pupils are pinpricks and the blue of his irises is milky-pale, but George’s heart pounds in his chest when he realises that his brother – this remnant of his brother – is looking at him again.
“Alright, Freddie?” he asks.
There’s no response, of course. Inferi can’t talk. They’re puppets made of human flesh, slaves to the will of the one who resurrected them. He reaches out to touch, and grimaces at the feel of him. Fred’s familiar skin has become something alien. Cold and clammy; soft in places it never was before. He’s rotting away under George’s fingers, waiting in line for burial.
He leans down and kisses Fred’s mouth. It’s repulsive, and he backs up quickly, turning away to gag and to hide his watering eyes from the vacant stare that follows him.
He came to say goodbye. Everyone he knows has told him he should move on and let go; he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t want to say goodbye. He wants his brother back. His twin. The bloated thing on the floor – not enough beds left for the living, let alone the dead – covered in a sheet and staring at him isn’t his brother. It’s a slave wearing an approximation of Fred’s skin. He could do anything to it.
He could make it get up. Make it rip itself apart and show him what Fred was made of. He could make it get to its knees and tilt its face up as he fucked his fist over it; make it bend over and wait as he thrust in. He could do anything, even bring the drunken dares and suggestive looks he and Fred had shared to their unnatural conclusion.
He could do it, but he won’t. Fuck it, even though he wants to, he won’t. He cancels the spell before he can change his mind. Fred’s eyes stay open, still daring him, and he reaches out again to try and press them closed before draping the sheet back over his swollen face. He’s got to get some rest. The funeral is in the morning, and while he’s expected to look like crap, he’s also expected to be able to help hold his mother upright.
He turns away. He makes it to the door before he hears the rustling. He looks back along the rows of the decomposing dead, and sees a single milk-blue eye staring back at him from under a slipped sheet.
He swallows. Fred can’t say goodbye either.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-07-29 09:05 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2014-07-29 09:30 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2014-07-29 09:09 pm (UTC)From:God! My heart strings! You play them like a master!
This is chilling and yet so fucking understandable, believable and just so damn sad! Kudos on the very brilliant work!
no subject
Date: 2014-07-30 10:01 am (UTC)From:What happens to Fred and George at the end of DH is devastating and I really wanted to capture that. It's why the rating is so low - I could have gone more explicit, but I didn't think it would work with the emotional impact.
no subject
Date: 2014-07-30 05:09 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2014-07-30 09:55 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2014-07-30 07:02 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2014-07-30 08:47 am (UTC)From:I did some research on human decomposition for something else not too long ago, and even though I didn't write the something else, I was glad to be able to use it. Fred's death was the one that hit me the hardest in DH because of his bond with George and how agonising it must have been for George to be left behind. I really wanted to get that across, and I'm really happy it was believable.