CHAPTER TWENTY:
NO TIME TO DIE
(trigger warning: mentions of death and vomit)

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WHEN THE DEATH EATERS CAME, Freya knew she was going to die.

Hovering hundreds of feet in the air, she should've felt at home in the sky. She had Solana sitting behind her, and the Thomas girl was clinging to her back for dear life, but she tried her best to stay calm with each slow, even inhale of air. This was where Freya McKinnon would always flourish. A year couldn't have changed that much; Solana may have worn Harry's face, but everything would have to be okay so long as she had Freya by her side.

The broom beneath them was familiar -- as it happened, it was Freya's very own -- and she flew yards ahead of the others, knowing its strengths and its weaknesses like the back of her hand. However, when the dark night sky suddenly glowed with eerie green light, a deadly nebula, the world seemed to flip on its axis; the familiar now a stranger, nothing could truly be trusted. Killers in cloaks had surrounded them, hiding their identities behind masks and lies, all of them lusting over one boy's demise. Harry Potter's features were a curse, a blood-painted one that scarred Solana's back.

The sky was a foreign terrain now, and Freya struggled to navigate it. Terror crept to the surface, hot and scalding. Heart pounding in a thump, thump, thump rhythm that stole the breath from her lungs and the strength from her bones, she urged the broom forward as Solana's abrupt voice suddenly shouted, "Stupefy!" and Freya was momentarily blinded by red -- red everywhere, like an ocean of blood behind her eyes, suffocating--

"Sol?" she screamed, only somewhat comforted by the sudden loss of Solana's touch on her back; her wild, erratic panting a warning sign. It was a bad idea to give up Solana Thomas' identity, but she wasn't the real Harry, and the Death Eaters had already realised that from the sound of a feminine voice. Most of the light lingered behind them as Freya guided them forward; behind them, the real Harry Potter was trapped in the side-car of Hagrid's motorbike, right in the thick of it. Bodies dropped one-by-one through the sky like fallen stars, caught out by their damned mortal coil. Frantic, Freya blurted, "Sol, tell me what's happening!"

"We've been betrayed--"

Weight slammed into them like a freight train; crushing, winding weight that threatened to knock them from their broom. The thought of free-falling sent a swooping sensation through Freya's gut, and she struggled to right them as a masked figure rammed into them again, their laughter tinged by sick fascination. Magic be damned; they wanted bloodshed.

Solana was screaming. Freya couldn't breathe. Something sharp and metallic glinted in the moonlight; it cut a ribbon up her arm and threw her off-balance. Solana's jinx skimmed past their face, and she struggled to hold onto her wand as a second body appeared on their other side, bursts of green casting an eerie glow everywhere. Above them, a skeleton's mouth tore open for the path of a snake. A promise of death had been given tonight. How many loved ones had Freya already lost, and she didn't even know?

"Avada Kedavra!"

One body went sprawling. Freya was keenly aware of the rush of blood in her ears. Solana's wand lowered, momentarily stunned, before the fallen foe's companion let out a furious shout and reached for his wand. Freya soared forward. She didn't reach for her wand, but she didn't have to; she kicked at the Death Eater's ribs until the man lost his bearings and dropped like a stone in a cruel taste of karma.

The silence of the aftermath was daunting. The rush of blood slowed, but with the knowledge that she'd just killed someone in her brain, she felt more alive than ever.

No more Death Eaters came. They found their meeting place in quiet contemplation, just in time to catch the portkey that would bring them to The Burrow.

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"WHAT DID I SAY to you when I found out you were dating that... boy."

Despite the wand pointed at her throat, Freya grinned. "You said you were too young to be a grandfather, that George would be the cause of your grey hairs."

"And I was right," Fraser ruefully gestured at his thinning hair. His beard, thicker than ever, was streaked with white, like a modern day Santa Claus if Santa was in his forties.

"Anyone else back yet?"

Fraser shook his head. "Just you two." He furrowed his brows at the tinge of sweat on Solana's skin, her vacant expression as she stared up at the house that loomed above them like it was her own personal prison, the fates' twisted idea for her punishment in the Fields of Asphodel. Then, with a grimace at the leaking cut on Freya's forearm, he asked, "You two alright? What happened?"

Freya and Solana exchanged a fleeting glance, one Fraser would've normally missed had he not been sober, for once. He made an impatient humming sound, and Freya murmured, "We were betrayed. The second we got into the sky, they were on us."

"Did you see what happened to any of the others?"

The two girls shook their heads, remaining tight-lipped, and Fraser wisely decided to leave them be for the time being as Mrs Weasley hurried out to usher them inside. No sooner had they sat down at the table with two strong shots of Firewhiskey did another crack sound in the yard.

"I'll go," Fraser insisted, but that didn't stop Mrs Weasley and Ginny from scrambling to check who it was.

Freya didn't blame them. For Molly, it was her husband and five of her seven children. For Ginny, her brothers and her dad. Neither would forgive themselves if something was to happen. She watched her father closely as he limped out into the yard. He didn't show it, but Freya had caught the flash of fear in his eyes as he held the wand to her throat.

Was this really his daughter? Had the McKinnon's brush with death taken his last living family from him?

In a cruel twist of fate, Freya lived.

The loud booming voice of Hagrid confirmed that by some miracle, Harry had also escaped by the skin of his teeth. The Boy-Who-Lived didn't come in from the yard, but Hagrid was accompanied by a trembling Mrs Weasley and a grim-faced Fraser. The giant dropped into a seat at the head of the table and gulped down a glass of Firewhiskey like it was water.

"We lost sigh' of yous almost immediately," he mumbled with a nod in Freya and Solana's direction. The Thomas girl was yet to say a word, staring at the bottom of her cup with glassy eyes. "Thought for sure the Death Eaters had gotten ya."

"I've only got a cut," Freya said when the room buzzed with expectant silence. "Could've been worse."

Solana asked for another drink then, and Mrs Weasley handed it over without question. Freya felt like she was hovering outside of her own body, watching the moment unfold as another crack was heard in the yard. Seconds later, Ginny screamed, and a new kind of silence rippled through like lightning; tense, anticipating the boiling point. Freya felt the blood drain from her face when Remus appeared in the doorway, framed by the darkness of the night, with George slumped against his side.

Her feet moved on instinct. George's blood was warm, sticking to every bit of skin and cloth it could reach. There was a gaping hole on the side of his head where his ear should've been, where most of the crimson liquid was coming from. His chest was rising and falling with shallow, aching breaths. Apart from that, Freya would've sworn he was dead.

The day George Weasley died was the day all things soft and beautiful would be buried with him. Freya's world would be bleak and loveless, prompted by her own damning hand. Regret burnt like acid as she stumbled back and allowed Remus and Mrs Weasley to half-drag him towards the couch. There, he laid like a corpse, with Freya looming over him like the grim reaper.

Just one touch, and she swore he'd crumble to ash.

Around her, the room burst at the seams with commotion. Fraser was red-faced and panicked, struggling to pull Remus back as Remus lunged for Harry and held him against the wall at wand-point. In contrast to Fraser and Freya's joking nature, Remus' question for Harry was an accusation, a final warning before the killing blow came. When Harry managed to answer correctly, only then did Remus pause and pull back.

Soaked in blood, he looked half-dead himself.

Still, Freya couldn't move.

"What the fuck happened?"

Normally, Mrs Weasley would've scolded Fraser for the crude language, but she was too busy sobbing and tending to George's wound to notice. Freya's cut paled in comparison, a puddle compared to a tsunami. Her knees buckled but she forced herself to stand as Remus answered grimly.

"We've been betrayed." Aka the general consensus. All of a sudden, a light hand reached for Freya's shoulder. Solana stood beside her with wide-eyes. The first tear fell. "Voldemort knew you were being moved tonight, Harry. I had to make sure you weren't an imposter."

"And George?" Solana asked when Freya failed to find the words.

All eyes seemed to burn holes into the back of Freya's head. It was like they were waiting for her to snap, to tip over the precarious edge of another brush with death. The greater grief was to be left on earth when another was gone. For a second, a duel with fate, Freya had almost existed in a world that did not have George Weasley in it. The thought was incomprehensible. A sob caught in her throat, but she was quick to bury it as she crept to Mrs Weasley's side, a sinner to a holy land, a lover asking for forgiveness. George's hand was ice cold in her own, his skin pale and clammy.

Remus didn't get to answer before another crack followed by several others was heard. At last. He rushed out into the yard with Harry and Hagrid right behind him. Moments later, Fraser struggled to limp after them, leaving Solana and Ginny to cling to each other, just watching Mrs Weasley soothe George's hair back from his face. Out the yard, a frantic voice shouted and Fred and Mr Weasley came running. Right behind them was Ron and Bill, then everyone else.

Seemingly realising his family was there, George's eyes began to flutter. His chest expanded with a sharp inhale, and he forced his eyes open as Fred came close enough that his shoulder brushed against Freya's. Together, the two peered down at him anxiously.

"How're you feeling, Georgie?" Fred prompted when George didn't speak.

"Saint-like," his twin answered after a few more seconds of silence. He reached up to feel the empty space where his ear used to be and grimaced when Mrs Weasley instinctively swatted his hand away. A small grin tugged at his lips, one of recognition and amusement. Freya wished she had it in her to laugh.

"Come again?" Fred was just as affronted.

"Saint-like," George repeated, sounding more coherent with each breath. So he wasn't delirious. That was good to know, at least. Though Fraser was frowning at him like he couldn't quite understand, even after a year, why his only daughter was in a relationship -- albeit, a rocky one -- with this boy. "'Cause I'm holy. I'm hole-y, Fred. Get it?"

Fred face-palmed. A soft, hesitant laugh echoed around the room. "The whole wide world of ear-related humour, and you go for 'I'm hole-y.' That's just pathetic, Georgie--"

Freya didn't stick around to hear the rest. Her feet pushed her outside, past Fraser, who murmured her name with confusion, and George's family, who frowned and looked unhappy, but Freya felt like she was suffocating and couldn't bring herself to turn back.

The previous night, her boyfriend told her he loved her.

She didn't say it back.

They didn't fight, but they went to bed with regrets, both for entirely different reasons.

Freya McKinnon had not changed much in the year she'd been out of Hogwarts. Sometimes, she looked at George, at Solana, at Fred, at everyone and wondered why they cared enough to stay. She'd do anything for them, but she could never amount to the person she'd fashioned herself to be in her own head.

Freya loved George. Of course she loved him.

But she hadn't said it back.

The following night, George had almost died.

Now she was killing people, and feeling numb, even when George came to and smiled at her like nothing had changed.

She keeled over in the yard, bile in her throat, and wretched until her shoulders shook and tears pricked her vision. Was she heartless? A monster? Who was Freya McKinnon, really?

Fraser appeared then, like calling to like, a broken-minded man understanding his daughter, who followed him down that path in vain. He sat beside her in the barren field, once she pulled herself away from Mrs Weasley's poor flower beds, and put an arm around her shoulder as the darkness swallowed them whole.

In the ache of night, the scar that stretched down his face from his eyebrow to his chin, and the unevenness of his leg were shrouded in shadows. The only hint that something was amiss was Fraser's uncomfortable twitches, his leg hating the awkward kneeling position, but Fraser persevered just to hear Freya speak.

"I killed someone tonight."

She didn't mention Solana, and Fraser said nothing. He just squeezed her shoulder and let her go.

There was nothing he could've said anyways.

This was war, after all.

It happened.