Whispers in the Dark-Fred Weasley

Chapter Forty

I haven't left my room all day.

Ginny and Hermione come and go, their voices gentle but persistent, their questions carefully measured—attempts to get me to talk, to pull me out of whatever state they think I'm in.

But I don't.

I don't have it in me to open my mouth and pretend I have the words to explain how I feel. I don't have it in me to go downstairs and talk to Fred like everything is fine, like I didn't spend last night being torn apart under the weight of Veritaserum and judgment. I don't have it in me to even look at Sirius, not after the way he looked at me like he wasn't sure if I was someone he could stand to be in the same house with.

The Order members have left, their presence no longer suffocating the walls of Grimmauld Place. But still—I can't shake the feeling that their voices, their stares, their doubt still lingers in the air like the last embers of a dying fire. I can't face the pitying looks from Ron or Harry now—not after last night, not after they heard the truth, the brutal, unfiltered reality of how I ended up on the Weasleys' doorstep that night.

I should get up. I should walk downstairs, let Fred wrap his arms around me, let him tell me that I'm okay, that I'm safe, that I belong here.

But I can't.

Because I don't know if I believe it. I feel guilty, locking myself away like this—away from Fred. I know he's waiting for me. I know he's probably pacing, debating whether or not to come up here and force me out of this room, force me to talk to him. But right now, I can't.

I don't want to talk. Not to Ginny. Not to Hermione. Not to Fred. Not to anyone.

The door creaks open more, and i glance up from where I'm curled on the edge of teh bed. Sirius leans against the doorway, arms crossed, looking just as exhausted as I feel.

"I assume you're not actually dying," he muttrers, eyeing me with something between amusement and mild irritation. 

I sigh, rubbing my hands over my face. "Not yet."

He huffs a dry chuckle, stepping inside without permission, as if the conversation from last ngiht gave him some right to invade my space now. He doesn't sit, just lingers near the old dresser, drumming his fingers against the wood.

"Did you come in here to be insufferable or just to gloat about how miserable I am?" I mumble, not bothering to sound polite.

"Bit of both," he admits, eyes scanning the dimly lit room. "But mostly, I figured I should check if you'd actually wasted away in here."

I roll my eyes, but it lacks energy.

I sit frozen on the bed, still reeling from the encounter with Kreacher, my skin crawling from his words-the noble house of Black. 

Sirius scoffs, almost as if he can hear my thoughts. "You hate the way he talks, don't you?" His voice is rough, edged with something unreadable. "The reverence, the loyalty, the devotion to a name that doesn't deserve it."

I don't respond at first, but eventually, I nod. "It's unsettling."

Sirius lets out a hollow chuckle, moving toward one of the chairs and collapsing into it with the weariness of someone who has been fighting a battle for too long. "Yeah," he mutters, staring at the flickering candle on the table, eyes distant. "Unsettling is one word for it." Silence hangs between us. He drums his fingers against the table absently, lost in thought, before finally sighing.

"You know," he starts, voice lower now, like he's speaking more to himself than me, "I used to think that if I ran far enough, I could get away from it. That I could outrun the name, the history, the legacy." He shakes his head, his jaw tightening. "But this house—it reeks of them. Of their hatred, their arrogance. No matter how much I try to scrub it clean, it remembers."

I glance around the room, at the dark, peeling wallpaper, the high-backed chairs, the old silver trays engraved with the Black family crest. Everything about Grimmauld Place feels like it's been trapped in time, preserved in dust and bloodline superiority. "I know that feeling," I say quietly. "Like it's sewn into your skin. No matter what you do, you'll always be one of them."

His gaze flickers to me, something guarded in his expression. "Do you really believe that?"

I swallow hard. "I don't know."

Sirius studies me for a long time before leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Let me tell you something about the Black family." His voice is quieter now, more controlled, but laced with a quiet rage that simmers beneath the surface. "They don't just teach you their ideals. They breed them into you. Make you believe it's in your bones. That blood is the only thing that matters. That loyalty to the family comes before everything—before right or wrong, before yourself." He scoffs bitterly. "My mother used to say that a Black who turns against his family is no better than a common mutt."

The bitterness in his voice is like rusted iron, jagged and corroded.

I don't dare interrupt.

"She tried to make me believe it," he continues, shaking his head, lost in the memory. "Tried to carve it into my mind the way they tried to do with all of us. Bellatrix? She took to it like breathing. Regulus..." His voice falters for a moment, just for a moment, before he schools his expression again. "Regulus was different. He believed it too, until he didn't."

I hesitate before asking, "And you?"

Sirius exhales sharply. "I fought it from the moment I understood what it meant. I fought it so hard that it broke me." He gestures vaguely to the house. "And yet, here I am. Right back where I started."

There's something so profoundly exhausted in his voice, something that makes my chest ache.

Sirius sighs, his expression shifting slightly, less teasing. "I know what it's like to want to disappear, Serena."

I freeze at his words, but I don't look at him. Because of course he knows. Because he did disappear. Because he left his family behind in the way I should have, in the way I couldn't.

My throat tightens, and before I can stop myself, I ask, "What was my mother like?"

Sirius' expression flickers. He wasn't expecting the question. For a long moment, he doesn't answer, just studies me carefully, like he's trying to decide what to say. "She wasn't as bad as the rest of them," he finally says, voice measured. "Not like Bellatrix. Not like my mother." He pauses, crossing his arms. "Narcissa was... careful. Calculated. She always knew how to say the right thing, how to act the right way. She was never openly cruel, not the way the others were. But she never fought against it either. She never questioned it."

I swallow, my fingers tightening around the blankets beneath me.

"She loves Draco," I murmur, because that much, at least, I know.

Sirius nods, his gaze distant. "Yeah. She does. And I think, in her own way, she loves you too. But love in the Black family is..." He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "It's conditional. It's based on loyalty, on obedience. That's why my mother hated me. Because I refused to play their game."

I look down at my lap. "Do you think she ever wanted to leave? Like you did?"

Sirius watches me carefully before shaking his head. "No."

My chest tightens.

"She was never like me, Serena," he says, softer now. "She never wanted out. She wanted safety. She wanted power. She wanted a place in that world. She chose it."

The words hit harder than I expect.

I think of my mother's cold hands tucking my hair behind my ear. The rare, soft moments of affection before it was stripped away by expectations, by duty, by blood. I think of what it must've been like for her—to see Sirius run and choose to stay anyway. I glance up at him, and for the first time, I don't see the hardened fugitive, the bitter outcast. I see a boy who ran away from home and never really found another one.

I clear my throat, trying to steady my voice. "Do you regret it?"

Sirius raises a brow. "Running?"

I nod.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he leans against the dresser, tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling like the answer is carved into the cracks. "No," he finally says. "But I regret that I had to." Something about his words settles in me, a weight I hadn't realized I was carrying. Maybe I'll never stop being a Malfoy. Maybe my mother will never leave that world.

"I don't know what's worse," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "Losing yourself in it completely or knowing what they are and still not being able to escape them."

Sirius finally looks at me, really looks at me. And in his expression, I see something I hadn't before.

Understanding.

For the first time since I stepped foot into this house, I don't feel like he's just looking at a Malfoy sitting across from him. He sees me. "Serena," he says slowly, deliberately, "you don't have to escape them all at once. You just have to start choosing differently."

I bite the inside of my cheek, his words settling into me like a weight I hadn't realized I'd been carrying. "Did it ever stop feeling like you were one of them?" I ask, my voice softer now.

Sirius is quiet for a long moment before he sighs. "No. But one day, I stopped caring that I was." I sit back, absorbing his words, letting them settle deep in my bones. Maybe I'll never stop being a Malfoy.

But maybe that doesn't have to mean what they always told me it did.

I huff, shaking my head as a tired smile creeps onto my face. There's something strangely comforting about sitting here, about talking to someone who understands in a way no one else ever could. But I can't let him have the last word.

"This doesn't mean I like you by any means," I quip, crossing my arms, my voice dry but lighter than it's been all day.

For once, Sirius chuckles softly, shaking his head. "I wouldn't trust it if you did."

The sound surprises me—it's quieter than his usual sharp, sardonic laughs, less forced, more natural.

"Good," I reply, smirking slightly. "Because I don't."

Sirius tilts his head, studying me. "Liar."

I roll my eyes. "I don't hate you. There's a difference."

"Oh, well, that's just the highest praise," he deadpans, placing a hand over his heart mockingly. "I'm honored."

"Should be," I tease back, shifting slightly, stretching my legs out in front of me. "Not many people get upgraded from loathed to tolerated in less than twenty-four hours."

Sirius smirks, running a hand through his tangled hair. "I'll alert the press."

We sit there for a beat, the tension between us no longer suffocating, just heavy with the weight of everything we've already said.

"I still don't like the idea of you being here," he admits after a moment, though his tone is no longer sharp.

I sigh, nodding. "I don't like it either."

"Then why stay?"

I swallow, considering my answer before meeting his gaze. "Because I have to."

Sirius nods slowly, like he understands more than I've actually said.

"Well, for what it's worth," he says, standing, stretching lazily before making his way toward the door, "if you ever do decide to leave, do me a favor and make sure you steal something on the way out."

I raise an eyebrow. "Like what?"

He grins, flashing a mischievous smirk. "Preferably something my mother would have a fit over."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Noted."

Sirius lingers in the doorway, watching me for a second longer before his smirk fades, something unreadable flickering in his expression. For the first time since I arrived at Grimmauld Place, he looks at me not with suspicion, not with resentment, but with understanding.

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "Anyway, before I get all sentimental and start crying into my tea, I'm going to bed."

I snort. "Oh, I'd pay to see that."

He smirks. "One day. If you're lucky."

I roll my eyes as he finally turns toward the door.

But before he disappears down the hall, he pauses. "For what it's worth," he says over his shoulder, "I'm glad you stayed."

And then he's gone.

I sit there for a long time after he leaves, staring at the flickering candlelight against the walls.

I don't feel completely different.

I don't feel completely okay.

But I feel seen.

...

The days pass in a blur, a revolving door of Order members coming and going from Grimmauld Place, bringing news from the outside world. Now that Dumbledore has vanished in whatever way only he can, things feel tenser, more uncertain. Everyone talks in hushed voices about Voldemort—where he's been, who he's hurt, where they think he'll strike next. The air is thick with strategy and speculation, whispered conversations exchanged in corners, maps unfurled on the kitchen table late into the night.

I try not to listen, but it's impossible not to.

At dinner, Order members cram into the kitchen, discussing elaborate plans with Sirius while Molly refills their plates. The kitchen here at Grimmauld Place is nicer than the one at the Burrow—cleaner, more refined—but the meals still taste like home. For the first few nights, the Order members eyed me warily, like they were waiting for me to burst into tears at any second, or worse, lash out in retaliation for what they did to me. But now, some have softened, gradually offering quiet words of encouragement. Lupin and Tonks were the first. They both apologized personally, explaining that they hadn't agreed with the Veritaserum, that they'd fought against it. But in the end, they hadn't fought hard enough.

I shrugged it off. What else could I do?

Fred has been giving me space, but I feel his gaze on me more often than not. A stolen glance across the dinner table, the way he lingers whenever he passes me in the hallway, the way his hand always seems to hover near mine before pulling away at the last second. I feel guilty for shutting him out. But I'm still trying to figure out how to let him back in.

...

The kitchen is crowded tonight, more bodies than usual packed into the room. I sit near the end of the table beside Harry, across from Arthur, Lupin, and Sirius, the familiar rustle of The Daily Prophet in Arthur's hands. "This is very, very peculiar," Arthur mutters, adjusting his glasses as he reads. "It seems that your hearing at the Ministry is to be before the entire Wizengamot."

Harry stiffens beside me. "I don't understand what the Ministry has against me," he says, defensive.

"Show him," Mad-Eye growls, his tone short and expectant.

A ripple of confusion spreads across the table, quiet murmurs passing between the Order members as Kingsley slides the paper toward Harry. Across the front page, bold, unmistakable letters:

THE BOY WHO LIES

Harry flips the page, and there it is—a large, glossy portrait of Cornelius Fudge, looking smug and self-satisfied, like he's just made the discovery of the century. I skim the article, my jaw going slack. "He's denying it? Denying that it happened last year?"

Lupin looks at me, something tired and resigned in his gaze. "He's using his power to influence the media."

"Why?" Harry asks immediately, his fingers gripping the edge of the table.

"The Minister thinks Dumbledore's after his job," Sirius interjects, swirling the drink in his hand.

Harry looks outraged. "That's insane! No one in their right mind would think Dumbledore—"

"Exactly the point," Lupin interrupts, his tone calm but weighted. "Fudge isn't in his right mind. He's been twisted by fear, and fear changes people."

Sirius clears his throat, his posture shifting. The room settles as he speaks. "We think Voldemort wants to build up his army again." A beat of silence falls over the table. Some heads turn toward me, some stay planted on their plates, but I know what they're thinking.

I nod. "They are," I confirm, my voice steady. "They've been plotting, holding meetings at my house—at Malfoy Manor."

I can feel Fred's eyes on me, but I don't turn to meet them.

Sirius continues, "Fourteen years ago, he had huge numbers at his command, and not just wizards and witches, but all manner of dark creatures. He's been recruiting heavily, and we've been attempting to do the same. But gathering followers isn't the only thing he's interested in." Moody clears his throat, his head jerking in my direction like I'm not sitting right here.

I roll my eyes. "If I wanted to help Voldemort, I would have done it by now."

Mad-Eye's lip twitches, unimpressed, but Sirius keeps going.

"We believe Voldemort may be after something..." The room goes silent—even Molly's steady chopping at the counter halts, the only sound the slight creak of the floorboards as people lean in.

"Sirius," Moody warns, but Sirius ignores him.

"Something he didn't have last time," he finishes.

I furrow my brows. "You mean... like a weapon?"

Before Sirius can answer, Molly hurries over, wiping her hands with a dish towel, her face drawn tight with thinly veiled frustration.

"No," she says, her voice firm. "That's enough. She's just a girl." The words land sharp and dismissive, slicing through whatever tension had been building. "You say much more and you might as well induct Harry and Serena into the Order straight away," she huffs, shaking her head.

"Good," Harry says immediately, his voice strong, unwavering. "I want to join. If Voldemort's raising an army, I want to fight."

The room shifts, quiet murmurs of disapproval breaking out.

I look around, seeing the same tired resistance on the faces of the older Order members, the same worn expressions that say: 'You don't understand what you're asking for.'

But I do.

I do understand.

And so does Harry.

The war has already started, and we're already in it, whether they want to admit it or not.

I glance across the table, and for just a second, my gaze meets Fred's.

His expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes linger on mine, like he's trying to figure out what I'm thinking, what I want.

I'm not sure I even know.

But I know one thing.

I'm not running anymore.

Let me help," I say, my voice coming out smaller than I intend. "Please." The Order members exchange glances, their faces grave, uncertain. Kingsley furrows his brows, as do Lupin and Tonks, their expressions unreadable but thoughtful. Mad-Eye sneers, his scarred face twisting with suspicion, though his magical eye shifts slightly, studying me in a different way than before. Finally, after a long pause, his gruff voice fills the room.

"Everybody out except Order members and..." his mechanical eye swivels between me and Harry, lingering for an excruciating second before landing on me.

"Serena."

Harry stiffens beside me, his jaw clenching. He looks like he wants to protest, to argue, but he knows it's useless. His shoulders slump in frustration and defeat before he turns sharply and leaves with the others, muttering under his breath. The door closes behind them. I inhale slowly, steadying myself before making my voice stronger, firmer.

"Let me join," I say, my eyes sweeping across the table. "What better message would it send than having a Malfoy on Dumbledore's side?"

Sirius leans forward slightly, his brow quirking up in intrigue, a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "You have to admit," he muses, tapping his fingers on the table, "it would be a rather poetic slap in the face to You-Know-Who."

Molly, however, is horrified. "She's only a child! You're not seriously considering—" But Fred cuts her off.

"Mum, she's been through more than most of us have."

I glance at him, and the way he's looking at me makes my chest tighten. There's concern there, deep and obvious, but also an understanding that none of the others have. Fred knows. He knows I wouldn't be putting myself in this situation if I didn't believe in it. "If she wants to fight," he continues, "we should at least listen to what she has to say. She knows things that can help."

Silence.

I feel the weight of their hesitation, of their deliberation, but I can't afford for them to say no. And then, an idea strikes. It's brilliant, but barbaric.

"Let me go back."

The room goes silent.

Every head turns toward me.

Even Mad-Eye stops pacing, his magical eye fixing on me, unblinking.

"Let me act like I've had a change of heart. Let me return to my family, to Malfoy Manor, and gain their trust. I'll report back to you on his whereabouts, his movements, his plans." The words leave my mouth in a steady stream, stronger than I thought they'd be. But the moment they settle, the weight of them crashes down. Sirius' smirk disappears instantly. Lupin's brows knit so tightly I think he's in pain. Kingsley exhales slowly, shaking his head. 

And Fred—Fred looks like I've just knocked the air from his lungs. "You can't be serious," he breathes, his voice dangerously low.

"No," Molly gasps, gripping the back of a chair. "Absolutely not!"

"It's dangerous," Lupin mutters, still staring at me like he's trying to read my soul.

Sirius, however, doesn't immediately reject it.

"It's risky," he says, carefully measured. "But it's not the worst idea."

Fred turns to him so fast it's a miracle he doesn't snap his neck. "You're joking, right?"

"It's insane," Tonks adds, her hair flashing a darker shade, a sign of her distress. "You'd be walking into a nest of Death Eaters, Serena. One wrong move, and they'll kill you. Or worse."

I don't flinch.

"They won't," I say evenly. "They still think I'm theirs. My parents, the Death Eaters—they'll welcome me back if I sell it right."

"Until they figure out that you're a spy," Kingsley interjects, his tone sharp but not unkind. "Then what?"

I hesitate. I don't have an answer for that.

"You'd be alone in there," Lupin says, voice quieter now. "No backup. No guarantee of escape. No way to know if we'd be able to help you in time if something goes wrong."

I clench my fists under the table. "I don't need backup. I know my way around that house better than anyone. I can get out if I need to."

"Or so you think," Moody mutters.

Fred pushes away from the table abruptly, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Absolutely not," he says, turning to me now, his voice tight with something I can't quite place. "I don't care if it's brilliant or reckless or if Sirius thinks it's a 'poetic slap in the face'—it's a bloody suicide mission."

"I can handle myself," I argue, feeling frustration rise.

"You shouldn't have to!"

His words cut through the noise, louder than I expected. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable, but there's something fierce in his eyes. Something that makes my breath catch.

Silence stretches for a few beats.

Sirius sighs. "Look, I think we can all agree she's got guts. And the idea itself... well, it's not completely without merit."

Molly looks like she's about to explode.

"But," Sirius continues, leveling me with a serious stare, "this isn't just a game of deception, Serena. You'd be playing with people who wouldn't hesitate to kill you the second they suspect something is off."

"She's not doing it," Fred interrupts again, more forcefully this time.

Sirius holds up a hand. "No one is saying she's doing it," he says, though he doesn't sound entirely convinced of his own words. "At least not yet."

I exhale, steadying myself. "Just... consider it," I say, my voice softer now.

Fred shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he rubs his hands over his face. He looks like he wants to say a thousand things at once but doesn't know where to start. I glance around the room. Kingsley still looks unconvinced. Lupin seems torn, like he doesn't know if he's against it because of the risk or because he's impressed I thought of it at all.

Tonks just looks worried.

And Sirius... well, Sirius is still considering it.

"That's enough," Moody concludes. "It's getting late, we'll talk about this tomorrow."

I gulp, Fred glaring at me like I'm a completely different person. Like he doesn't recognize me.  I want to tell him that I'm still me. That I'm not doing this because I want to prove something, or because I want to run back to them, or because I have some self-sacrificing death wish.

I'm doing it because it's the only thing I can do.

Because if I just sit here—if I just wait while people I know, people I love, are dying—then what was the point of leaving in the first place?

But I don't say any of that.

Instead, I hold his gaze for a second longer, searching for something, anything, in his expression that tells me he understands. But all I see is anger, frustration, and something else—something deeper, something dangerously close to hurt. He exhales sharply, pushing back from the table, shoving his chair across the floor as he storms out of the kitchen, not bothering to look back.

The door slams shut behind him, and the silence that follows feels heavier than anything else in the room.

A/N Please Comment: Is there not enough Fred scenes? Is it a good balance of actual plot of the story vs. fanfic scenes with Fred? Is either one dragging?