6A/N: My take on the BWL twins/brother. I hope you'll like it! Reviews are appreciated X
Chapter One
You-Know-Who Is Alive
Harry Potter gritted his teeth in anticipation as he tried to discern his brother's figure in the maze of garden hedges barely recognisable as the Quidditch Pitch. The day of the dreaded third task had finally come; the third task of a tournament his brother was barely surviving.
The selection of their saviour for the dangerous Triwizard Tournament had rocked the wizarding community to its core, yet no one seemed to question his brother's abilities. After all, he defeated Voldemort as a babe, how could he be scared of a mere tournament?
It had taken all of Harry's willpower not to rail against the Headmaster, the Ministry, and the whole student body, but a single, tearful conversation with Charlie made him pause.
"Harry, we have to keep Dumbledore on our side," Charlie whispered fervently, grabbing him by the shoulders. "This must be one of Voldemort's ploys. Dumbledore had nothing to do with it."
Harry shrugged Charlie's hands off his shoulders, his anger still roiling in his stomach. "He should've been more careful! How dare he insinuate you planned this!"
"Well, it's not all his fault." Charlie flashed Harry his signature, smug smirk before leaning closer—as if sharing a secret—and joked, "I do like getting attention, eh?"
"You prat, how can you joke at a time like this? I'm scared for you, you mulish oaf," Harry confessed, leaning against a desk in the familiar abandoned classroom.
Charlie was silent for a while after that comment, his face turned away from his brother's earnest fear. That stoked Harry's worry—Charlie was almost never silent. Harry sighed and ducked his head, trying to manoeuvre around Charlie's shoulder and meet his brother's eyes. Charlie was stubborn, he was a fighter. Harry was prepared for his brother's determination, his reckless bravery, his lack of self-preservation. He was not, however, prepared for the tears that silently slipped down Charlie's cheeks.
"Charles..." Harry whispered, but he trailed off. What was he supposed to say? It was him who did the crying, and Charlie the consoling.
Charlie's sobs had pulled Harry out of his thoughts, and he pulled his brother into a bone-crushing hug. "We're going to help you, yeah? Hermione and Daphne can research spells, I bet Neville has some ideas for plants you can use, Draco may be able to get some more information out of his father, Fred and George will jump at the chance to do some slightly illegal snooping, and Ron is great for...um...moral support?"
Harry winced as Charlie lightly thumped his head with a knuckle, but he didn't even mind the slightly demeaning form of endearment. Instead of complaining like he typically would, Harry pulled out of the embrace and grabbed Charlie by the shoulders. "I'll ask everyone for help, okay? Even Ginevra."
What he hadn't added to that last name was, "Even though all she's good at when you're involved is stuttering and making a complete fool of herself."
Charlie snorted through his tears. "Come on, when will you let that go? Poor girl."
"When she stops stalking you," Harry informed his brother in a matter-of-fact tone. "She stalks me too, you know. One of these days I may take Professor Snape up on his offer to shave my hair. Maybe if I look a little less like you, she'll stop following me around by mistake."
Charlie placed a hand on his chest, smiling as he'd dramatically proclaimed, "My dearest brother, why wouldn't you want to look like me? I am, after all, the more dashing of the pair—or so the women say."
Harry just rolled his eyes. "I don't know how Daphne stomachs your bloated ego."
"Harry." Charlie sought his eyes. "You're okay with us dating, right? I mean–"
"Yes," Harry interrupted quickly. Despite the fact Daphne and Charlie was going steady for a few weeks, his crush on her was still a sore subject for Harry, and now wasn't the time to get into it. He needed to be there for his brother. "Of course. It's merely a silly crush."
"That's how mine started too–"
"Salazar, we're not going to talk about girls right now. Not when there are more dangerous, life-threatening, immediate topics to address: like the tournament that you were somehow selected for!"
Charlie pouted melodramatically. "You wound me, brother." Suddenly turning serious, he gazed out of the window for a few minutes. "I…I'm frightened, Harry—terribly frightened. And tired—dreadfully tired. It seems some new crisis occurs every bloody year, and I'm exhausted. Sometimes, I just wish it would stop, you know?"
Harry's heart broke for his brother. He hated that every year, his brother's wings were clipped shorter and shorter. But that was why Charlie was the "Chosen One": through everything he managed to keep his head high and bring joy to those around him. He was the light, and he damn well lived up to it. "It'll end, Charlie," Harry finally whispered, fervently wishing his words to be true. "I don't know when, but it will end."
"I just hope I live long enough to see it," Charlie whispered back, his words barely loud enough for Harry to hear.
Harry looked in disbelief at his brother. "You git!" Harry hissed. "Of course, you'll see it. You, of all people, deserve to see it. You deserve to live your dreams."
"Just live, Harry," Charlie told him. "That's my only dream. For you to live."
Harry grinned at Charlie amidst the seriousness of the conversation. "And they wonder why we weren't sorted into the same house. You've got a lousy sense of ambition."
Charlie scoffed at the thought. "Me? A strong, dashing Gryffindor in dull, green robes? Absolutely preposterous."
"I'm terribly proud of you for using a big word, Chaz. Perhaps Hermione's finally rubbing off on you," Harry teased.
"Oh, sod off," Charlie replied, glaring when Harry barked a laugh. "Who would've known that she'd get along with Daphne?"
"Books, knowledge—it was pretty obvious. You really don't use your head enough."
"Come on, I've had double potions today. My ego has been bruised enough by Snape."
"Charlie?" Harry asked, suddenly sobering through the laughter. "Promise me you'll live?"
"If you promise me that I'll be godfather to your first child, then yes."
"Harry," Hermione breathed out beside him, pulling him out of his reminiscence. "What do you think is happening?" She paused a bit, straining her neck and rising up on her toes in an effort to better see what was happening in the maze. "You'd think that—with all the talented wizards and witches here for the tournament—someone would invent a way to show us what's happening."
"I think we've established that wizards don't use logic," Harry pointed out.
"You two talk as if you aren't wizards," the blond boy next to Hermione muttered.
"We're both Muggle-raised, Malfoy," Hermione retorted. "It gives us a level of perspective far beyond what you can ever hope to achieve."
"I have perspective!" he protested.
"Trust me, he doesn't have perspective. Not with all the 'You need to live up to your pure-blood potential' lectures he's been getting from his father lately," Daphne answered distractedly, still scanning the pitch. Her shoulders were tense, and when she ignored Draco's indignant protests, Harry knew she had to be worried for Charlie. Daphne rarely passed up an opportunity to give Draco a good ribbing. "I think I'm going to die if I'm forced to imagine what's happening any longer. I swear I keep seeing giant spiders scuttling around in there."
Ron let out a shudder beside Neville as he let loose his favourite curse. "Bloody hell. Spiders are the worst!"
"I can name dozens of creatures more dangerous than spiders," Hermione muttered under her breath.
Harry was about to nudge Hermione when a portion of the maze suddenly disappeared. The audience went silent as they peered at the missing area. A swish, indicating a Portkey arrival, rang through the stands, and a body appeared in the middle of the pitch. Harry couldn't tell how, but he somehow knew deep in his gut that the body belonged to his brother.
"Charlie," he breathed, and it felt as if someone had socked him in the gut. He couldn't breathe. Charlie had to be okay. He just had to.
But his brother's body wasn't moving.
For a moment no one moved. No one even breathed. Everyone just stared at Charlie's frozen frame, too shocked to do anything other than gawk.
The shock wore off rather quickly.
The next moment it seemed as if the crowd erupted, the loudest scream of all coming from the blonde Slytherin beside him. Harry wanted to comfort his friends. He wanted to close his eyes, he wanted to cover his ears, he wanted everything to stop so he could just think for a second...but it seemed as though everyone else was too caught up in their own grief to pay attention to the still boy's twin.
"Harry!" Hermione called out beside him. She was tugging at his arm, her features schooled into a mask of stoicism. "Let's follow Dumbledore." She pointed to Dumbledore's imposing figure approaching Charlie's prone silhouette.
Dragging his feet, Harry tried to focus on the back of Hermione's head. He couldn't let himself believe his brother was dead. He was just hurt. But he would be okay. He had to be okay. He was Charlie, the Boy Who Lived. In the time it took them to weave through the masses, Harry had almost convinced himself there was nothing to worry about.
Almost.
And that 'almost' was crushed as soon as he saw Dumbledore's miserable expression.
Between one step and the next, his legs somehow turned to jelly as if he was hit with a Jelly-leg jinx, instantly becoming flimsy, swollen, and unwieldy. On the next step his knee wavered, then collapsed, and he fell to his knees in the grass with a thump.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter."
He barely processed Hermione's violent intake of breath beside him. He barely processed the clamour of the crowd behind him, barely held back by the combined strength of the professors of all three schools. All he could see was his brother's body, lying crumpled on the ground, trophy still in hand as he crawled forward.
"No, no, no," he whispered as he took his brother's still warm hand between his own. "No, no, no, no, no."
"No" became his mantra as he touched his Charlie's cheeks, hair, chest. Harry vaguely registered the dark, mottled line of skin across Charlie's throat, the bloody palms and elbows, the lump on the back of his head that was still sticky with fresh blood. Charlie was the better brother. He was stronger, braver, and better in every conceivable way. He couldn't be gone. He was just passed out. If Harry just shook him hard enough…
Strong hands pulled him off of his brother's body, stopping his violent attack. A high-pitched keening buzzed around his skull, and he wished whoever was making that noise would just shut up. His brother had just died, they had no right to be grieving.
It only took a few more heartbeats for him to realize the wail was coming from his own mouth.
And it only took a few more for him to elbow his attacker in the stomach and dart away, levelling his wand at them in a fluid motion.
"You disgusting people! Get away from him!" Daphne screamed from where she stood next to him, big, fat, ugly tears streaming down her face as she waved her wand at the assembled crowd.
"Mr. Potter, Ms. Greengrass," Professor Snape admonished, his wand at his side as if he didn't honestly believe Harry and his friends were a threat. "Lower your wands." That only made Harry more determined.
"This is your fault!" Harry screamed at Dumbledore, his voice bordering on hysteria. "If you hadn't let him in this bloody tournament, Charlie wouldn't be dead! He trusted you!"
Dumbledore's eyes pinched at the sides, but he didn't deserve to grieve Charlie. It was his fault Charlie was dead, his fault Harry's beloved brother would never see the day Voldemort was defeated.
"I know you're in shock–" Dumbledore tried to placate him, but nothing would ever fill the hole in his heart. Nothing would ever fix the fact that his brother was dead.
Nothing would ever bring Charlie back.
"You bastard!" Harry screamed, his voice cracking with grief as his vision blurred.
Instantly, the entire pitch was so silent you could hear the wind rustling the blades of grass. Harry was the quiet one. Harry was the respectful one. Harry had never cursed in his life. And yet here he was calling the Headmaster a bastard.
Grief made people do strange things, and Harry was just getting started.
Salty tears were running down his cheeks and into his mouth, but Harry couldn't bring himself to care. "You wouldn't tell us—him—anything! You didn't even teach him how to defend himself!" He was wailing now, matching Daphne's cries beside him. She was still hovering over Charlie's figure.
"You know what?" Harry asked, fully aware of the scene he was making and yet not giving a damn. Taking a deep breath, he realized that he couldn't bring himself to forgive his brother's mentor right now. After returning his wand inside his pocket, he looked straight into Dumbledore's eyes. "Maybe we don't need you."
Harry tried to relish the quick feeling of satisfaction that flooded his veins as he watched Dumbledore's eyes widen in understanding and fear. The Headmaster stumbled on his own words finding the right words to say, "Harry, don't be rash. You're going to say something you can't take back."
Harry discovered, in his newfound numbness, he didn't particularly care. He brazenly ignored the aged Headmaster as he turned to scan the crowd for a certain, white-robed figure. Several people averted their gaze in shame, while some tried to hold his gaze in pity. He ignored them all as he scourged their faces.
He shouldn't have wasted his time looking for her. As he returned his gaze on Charlie's body, he instantly saw the Healer, her white robes already caked with blood.
His brother's blood.
"Madam Pomfrey," he called out quietly once he had his emotions back under control.
She looked at him with such anguish in her eyes that his breathing hitched once more. He took in several steadying breaths before he could speak. "Is there a place we could...keep him for a while? I... I'd like him to be out of everyone's stares."
The Healer absentmindedly nodded as she levitated Charlie's body back into the castle, presumably to the infirmary. "I'm sorry for your loss," she whispered, pausing instead of walking past him. "Your brother…Your brother was a beacon of hope for us all."
Gazing longingly after his brother's silhouette, Harry watched the procession slowly, only tearing his gaze from the desolate vignette once they entered the castle. Then he swivelled back and returned his attention to the crowd, his sadness slowly draining away, leaving a void for his anger to fill.
"And you," he began, barely audible against the mutterings of the crowd. His anger spiked as he registered the fear and hopelessness on their faces. He continued, his volume and courage bolstered by each puff of breath, "All of you! You worshipped him. You treated him like your saviour. How could you?" Tears threatened to pour out of his eyes again, but he willed himself to not cry. These people didn't deserve any more of his tears.
"How could you drop the weight of the world on his shoulders? How could you expect him to fight this war when we've only known we were wizards since we received our Hogwarts letters? He's only fourteen…" Failing, a sob erupted from his mouth. Through his tears, he accused them. "All of you...all of you had a part in his death. You killed him! Not Voldemort," he paused to glare at the crowd as they flinched at the utterance of his name and said in a defeated tone, "My brother is...d-d-dead..."
He watched Hermione walk towards him in a slow, agonising manner. She stopped in front of him and grasped his hands with her own shaking ones. She gave him a squeeze and he felt the piece of parchment she had just passed him on. "It was found in his hand."
Giving her hands a squeeze before letting go, Harry opened the paper and quickly regretted it when he felt the bile begin to work its way up his throat. There, in blood-formed letters, were the words that would haunt him for a long time.
Say farewell to your saviour. Lord Voldemort has risen from the ashes.
He immediately positioned himself to burn the note with a quick wave of his wand, but Hermione stopped him in the nick of time. She grabbed his arm, looking apologetic as she did so, and sent a pointed look at the Minister for Magic standing with the crowd. Sighing as he did so, he gave a sharp nod in response and handed the parchment to the Minister.
"Lies," the Minister muttered under his breath. Harry resisted the urge to shake the feeble man's trembling shoulders. "Lies! It can't be…this is just one of my enemy's ploys! It can't be V-Vol…Lies!"
"Cornelius, boys do not die at the hands of cheap tricks! Enough of your blustering!" Dumbledore turns to the crowd and announces, "Voldemort is back."
The effect was instantaneous.
The noise from the crowd intensified as they shouted, cried, and clutched their loved ones against their bosoms as if to keep them safe. Harry looked at the groups of families and closed his eyes, stopping himself from thinking of his own family. He willed himself not to think how...alone he was in this dangerous world.
A figure near him suddenly fell to its knees. It was Fudge, looking at the note in terror in his hands as he muttered something under his breath that Harry didn't care to discern. Fudge looked like he was about to faint. That, more than anything else, worried Harry...until he remembered that the man in front of him placed Hagrid in Azkaban, stationed Dementors in Hogwarts in order to catch their godfather and organized this bloody tournament.
Rolling back his shoulders, he looked across the panicking crowd and realized he didn't care. He didn't feel anything. But they should be terrified. He wanted them to be terrified. He didn't offer assurances, something his brother probably would've given in this situation. He wanted them to feel pain.
"They deserve it," he muttered to himself as turned and stalked off the Quidditch pitch, letting them drown in their own fear.
Harry heard muffled cries before he even reached the foot of Charlie's bed. He took a step back, not wanting to intrude, but forced himself to proceed since he wanted to spend time with his brother's body.
He needn't have worried; it was only Madam Pomfrey, crying on the seat beside his brother's corpse. Harry tried not to disturb her as he crept at the foot of Charlie's bed, but failed when he accidentally—and quite loudly—stubbed his toe against the metal legs of the bed.
"Harry." The Healer jumped to her feet at his yelp of pain. "I'm sorry." She apologised, scrubbing the tears off her face. "I'll leave you alone with him."
"No," Harry replied. "You…Stay. Please." He grabbed another chair from another cot and sat on the other side. "You were close with him as well. Thank you…for taking care of him."
Harry studiously avoided acknowledging the wet-cheeked Healer and his brother's corpse by observing the headboard, where 'Charles Potter' was engraved on a golden plate. It was a silly gift from the Potter brothers after Madame Pomfrey had jokingly referred to the bed as Charlie's. She'd proclaimed if he was going to visit so often, he may as well have his own bed. It came along with some fancy gloves that she wore for special occasions.
"You've been like a mother to us, Madam Pomfrey," Harry admitted. He debated continuing when he heard an anguished cry from the Healer, but one glance at Charlie's bruised face pushed him on. "Charlie would never admit it, but he was thankful you noticed his scars." Tears fell from his face this time. "We're thankful that you noticed when no one did."
"Harry."
"Thank you for healing him throughout the years. You always did say that he shouldn't come back to the infirmary, and now..." he trailed off. Madam Pomfrey cried harder again. He sighed, feeling frustrated with himself.
"I'm sorry, that was a horrible joke. There's a reason why Charlie is the funny one." He daren't correct himself with his tense. He knew his brother was gone, but it just wasn't fully sinking in.
Madam Pomfrey studied Charlie's face for a while. "I'm proud of him. He was a good person. And I treated you as my sons, Harry, because I thought of you as my sons. I loved both of you as my sons."
It was nearing curfew, though Harry kept a solemn pace down to the dungeons. No matter how Charlie teased him about the musty, damp atmosphere of the dungeons, he liked it there. It was one of the places he truly felt at home. Harry uttered the password and was met by a blur of blonde hair.
"Harry!"
"Daphne, I was expecting to see you in the infirmary."
"I…We weren't allowed to leave the commons," Daphne bitterly informed him. Harry merely pursed his lips, stopping himself from commenting further. Still, it was better than allowing the whole student body to visit his brother.
"Madam Pomfrey's there with him. He's in his usual bed. He's fine." Charlie was dead. He most definitely was not fine, but then again, reassurances had never been his area of expertise.
"Fine? He's dead, Harry!" Daphne exploded, violently pushing him back by his shoulders. "How can he be fine when he's dead? How can he leave me?" No tears marred her face, only anger evident on her face. Harry felt his energy being sucked by her anger. He didn't want to face this right now, only yearned for the numbing comfort of sleep.
"I'm sorry," he answered weakly. "We're both tired. Let's head to bed."
He tried to move around her, but she only moved to block him again. She kept silent, watching him for a while as she kept him from moving further. He sighed in frustration then threaded his fingers in his hair. "Greengrass."
Daphne suddenly leapt into his arms, and Harry felt her hands clasp around his neck as he stumbled back, keeping an arm around her waist for balance. She tilted her face up as they hit the wall, her eyes screwed shut with determination as she rose up on her toes, slowly eliminating any remaining distance between them.
As much as he liked Daphne...this was wrong. He pushed her away from him as gently—yet sternly—as he could. "What are you doing, Daphne?"
Sapphire eyes whipped open and her jaw dropped in shock as if she'd been slapped. "I'm…I'm sorry. For a minute I thought you were...I'm so sorry," she apologised repeatedly.
"It's okay," he muttered. "We all miss him, and it's going to be a... rough adjustment." He was just so tired. He guided her to the hallway leading to the female dorms. "You should rest." Without a single glance at him, she mindlessly stumbled as she walked into her room.
He glanced at the other end of the hallway, well aware that—despite his exhaustion—sleep was a lost cause. He fingered the invisibility cloak in his pocket and knew where he would be going tonight. He hurriedly slipped on the cloak around his shoulders and marched up to the Gryffindor Tower.
The Potter brothers didn't prefer to be called twins. The Weasleys and Patils had that honour, and besides, they never felt much like twins. Harry treated Charlie like an older brother, and Charlie treated Harry like a younger one.
Like most older brothers, Charlie was the rock that kept Harry safe.
Whenever Harry burnt the bacon, it was Charlie who took the blame and suffered under Vernon and Petunia's violence. Whenever he was bullied by Dudley, Charlie fearlessly took the bigger boy's punches.
And when Harry was sorted into Slytherin, Charlie stood by him against the sea of accusations from those who would never understand—those who didn't want to understand.
They were completely different. Charlie was sorted into Gryffindor, Harry into Slytherin. Charlie had hazel eyes, while Harry's were green. Charlie was confident and assertive, while Harry was content being a wallflower.
Still, like any other twins, they had their own rituals.
They flew every Sunday morning, a day neither Gryffindor nor Slytherins had Quidditch practice. They'd watch the sunrise, then play a quick pick-up Quidditch game with random fliers. Both brothers wouldn't be seen until later afternoon, right after their usual kip down. They could usually be found in the kitchens, with Charlie charming the pants off every house-elf and Harry asking them about their daily lives (it may or may not have been for Hermione's sake).
Another one of their habits was telling each other their House password.
"In case of emergency," Charlie reasoned with a pseudo-cheerful tone.
Harry had rolled his eyes at his brother's excuse, but he went along with it in the end. They had been doing it for the past three years. Hoping that the password hadn't changed since the last time Charlie told him about it, he whispered it to the portrait then sighed in relief when the fat lady grudgingly opened for him.
He really had no idea what he was actually doing here, but he was suddenly plagued with the need to sleep in Charlie's bed tonight. It felt like if he were to do so, he would be Charlie for tonight—the powerful brother. Figuring no one would be awake at this hour, he removed his cloak as soon as he neared the staircase.
"Harry?"
He suddenly froze on his steps. He quickly hid the cloak in his pocket and sighed in relief when he was realized it was only Hermione, who was sitting on the floor, leaning on the couch beside the fireplace.
Moving quickly in front of her, he kneeled to meet her eyes. "Hermione? Why are you still awake?"
"I wanted to check up on you, but I didn't want to be caught. I should've gone to the infirmary with you. I should have snuck out. I'm sorry," she rambled.
"Good thing you didn't. Peeves was intent on checking the halls tonight." He smiled weakly at her. He was just so tired.
Hermione must've seen the agony in his eyes because the next thing he knew, she called out his name with such empathy that Harry suddenly found himself breaking down in her arms. She continuously whispered his name and each whisper felt like a caress to his heart that made him feel a little less hurt and lonely at the same time.
"Harry."
He cried harder, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder in an attempt to silence his cries. He was shaking uncontrollably now. She leaned further into the sofa when she couldn't take his weight anymore.
"It's okay, Harry. You don't have to be quiet."
And Harry understood. She had used a Privacy Charm around them. He wanted to thank her, but he couldn't stop the words pouring out of his mouth.
"He left me, Hermione. My brother's dead. He's dead. Dead. Dead. Dead! He promised to never leave me, Hermione! How could he?" He cried harder, gasping for breath along the way. "I wish I were the one who died, Hermione! Charlie would know what to do. I don't know what to do anymore! He's dead, Hermione. Charlie is dead! They've all left me!"
Harry couldn't remember much what happened afterward, only remembering Hermione's warm embrace and calming voice that night.
