Plot Twist [GEORGE WEASLEY]

40.

The woods. They froze him to his bones. A full moon hung in the sky. Howls reverberated through the tall trees. There was no kindness in this night.

Too heavy, his legs were. They could no longer trudge through metres of snow. Nor could he use his wand to melt an easy pathway. His hand trembled too much and his mind was not right.

"Filthy tainted blood, filthy...werewolves!" he sang, fingers clawing to tree trunks for purchase. He slowly sank into the snow. Wetness seeped into every crevice in his body. He could no longer remember the feeling of warmth.

What did a fire even feel like?

"Filthy traitors! Filthy werewolves. Filthy giants! Filthy elves! Filthy...coloureds...filthy the bunch of em'!" he yelled out, the sound of his voice echoing.

A triad of wolves howled back.

Cold. Cold. Cold. It was everywhere. The direness of his situation dawned on him. He was going to die. Seconds and minutes; the only barrier between him and death.

All he wanted now was to get up and avoid such a fate. It was too late. His legs were too numb to function. They refused his cries. He had to move. He did not want to die here. Regrets buried in his chest.

"My wife...my wife...doesn't love me!" he laughed to the starry sky. "Son, I hope you know you could have been something with me. Oh, how I wish I didn't tell your mother. You may end up as glorious as me or as..."

He spat on the ground. Crimson speckled the snow. "Oh, look at that I am bleeding. How fantastic! I...I am...I am..." his body slid until it was eclipsed by the snow.

Closing his eyes, he exhaled. His lungs burned, fire catching on each breath. It became more difficult to breath. He desired to say something wise for his last words. However, his tongue denied him the right.

His frostbitten hand fumbled to his journal. It hid in the waistband of his trousers. He tore the already battered front cover. He needed something to write with.

At the exact moment, he heaved again. Blood drops sprayed the leather. He dipped his fingertip, examining the sticky consistency. It will have to do, he thought. Bloody circles and crosses later, he stuck it on the front page.

Satisfaction escaped him as he realized something.

If someone with muggle blood or half breed blood stumbled upon it his legacy would die with him. He flipped through the pages for a spell he had created ages ago. This task proved almost impossible as his eyes blurred from the pain. Blinking away the tears, he powered through.

He found it. His breath fogged as he attempted to say the words. Unfortunately, his tongue betrayed him. He wanted to say 'Until the right pure-blooded arrives' except he mumbled something which could cost his entire legacy.

"Usque ad tempus."

Until the time.

The map faded. The paper swallowed the ink. How disappointing, he dragged a bloodied hand down his face. No, this will cost everything. I regret this entire legacy. I regret what I was trying to do. I regret...I regret...

His heart dropped. The pain ebbed away. His eyes fluttered to a close. He was going to die. It was alright. He will be alright. They will find his body. They will honour him. He would not be forgotten.

He fell into stillness.

---

Amara jerked awake. Back against the headboard, she calmed her erratic breathing. She thought she had been falling. Into a never ending chasm. Is that how death felt like? She rushed past Athena and locked herself in the bathroom.