Winter in Walkerburn Solo

December 28th, 2019
Walkerburn, Scotland

George stood at home, though he still felt homesick. It had only been a week or so since he had left Hogwarts but it still felt like an eternity. He missed magic. All he could hear now were the cars outside, the voices on the radio, noise from the television. Home didn't feel like home anymore. He belonged somewhere else.

But he'd brought some souvenirs. The most obvious of which was the one he was inspecting in the mirror right now - a gnarly pink mark on his flesh, a bite mark, pressed into his shoulder by the crazy girl at the flaming ball who tried to steal Jake's costume. Pinching the edges of the scar made it sting. Massaging the whole thing created an odd burning sensation - it's agony, but George still didit for a minute, curious to see how long he could hold out. He'd been staring at himself shirtless for a good three minutes after showing his brother his new scar.

"What are you going to tell mom?" asked Sam. George glanced over his own shoulder in the mirror. The boys' shared bedroom looked like a bomb went off. Having George home had doubled the amount of disaster in the house. Some of George's school supplies laid scattered among the debris on his bed as Sam sorted through it, asking questions to his younger brother.

"Nothing. She'll go crazy if she finds out I got bit by a werewolf in my first term!" George hissed, glancing backward to his brother and then to the door. If she overheard them, he'd be pulled out of school, and his life would be over.

"So when's the next full moon? Are you gonna turn into a wolf?" Sam asked. George looked back at him again. Sam had grown so much while George was gone - his voice was so deep, George barely recognized it. The younger brother had a lot of catching up to do.

"No!" George grumbled, as if it was obvious.

George leaned back in toward the mirror, picking at himself again. The nurse had warned him that this would leave a scar. Most mundane things - like child bites - can be solved in a way that leaves the skin the same way it was before. Magical healing was nice like that. But magical wounds, of course, left magical scars, and magical healing was no good for that. It was unfortunate that the one person he decided to confront at the Masquerade ball turned out to be a werewolf. At least it looked cool.

"What is this? Your magic wand?" Sam asked, laughing.

George felt a sudden chill down his spine, the hair on his neck standing on end. He swung around to look at his brother, holding a hand out and speaking with as much authority as he could muster, but he was only twelve. "Put that down! Put it back!"

"Got your wand!" Sam started to back toward the door.

"Give it back!" George shouted, hurrying over.

But he was too slow. Sam was running as soon as George started to approach, calling out tauntingly, "got your wand! got your wand!" He hopped down the stairs three steps at a time, slipping into his boots and out the door before George could make it down to the door. George looked for his own boots, but couldn't find them. They must have been lost among the mess in his bedroom.

"Moooom!" George cried out, throwing open the front door. Outside was Sam, holding the wand the wrong way round, sticking his tongue out at George. George turned back to shout into the house again. His mother was holding a cup of tea, peeking out of the TV room's door. "Mom, Sam took my wand!"

Jeanette returned to the table to set down her tea and let out a drawn-out sigh. This was not a complaint most mothers had to deal with. Sam had been upset by George's departure, but she thought he had made some progress. Evidently, he was still jealous of his younger brother. She understood - every child wanted to be special, but she had tried so hard to remind him that he was special, too. Things would be different if either boy knew how to listen to their mother. She came to the door with her coat on, only to find that George was already gone.

He was chasing Sam through the snow, his heart racing, shivering as he felt the snow falling against his bare skin. It was ice cold - under his feet, too, he staggered and slipped after Sam. His wet feet were no match for his brother's boots when it came to negotiating with an icy street, and George let out a yelp as he took a final spill, landing on his bare chest in a pile of snow. He pushed himself up, shivering, and looked at Sam.

But Sam wasn't looking at him. Their next-door neighbour was out walking her dog. The little mutt was harmless, and they lived in a quiet place, so there was usually no harm in having it off a leash. The boys played with her quite often, and both knew that the pooch's favorite game was fetch. Sam gave the wand in his hand a playful shake, and the dog was ready to play.

"Sam, don't-" And then he did. George let out a cry of anguish as he watched the wand twirl through the air, chased by the playful pup, who jumped up to grab it out of the air before it landed. It was a good catch. George rolled over in the snow and got to his feet, intercepting the dog before it had the chance to return his wand to Sam. Their mother was waiting to intercept George as he ran back to the house, carrying his wand - now bite-marked as much as he was.

"No shoes, no jacket - what were you thinking? You're going to catch a cold! Get inside!" Jeanette scolded him, taking off her jacket and wrapping it around George's shoulders - helpfully concealing his bite-mark before pointing him toward the house with a helpful nudge. What was with these boys and biting each other? They behaved like animals.

George marched inside, the warmth of the house already starting to melt the snow off of his body. He was still shivering from the ice that was stuck on his chest. His wound had been irritated by the fall, and his wolf bite still burned hotly even with the icy cold on his skin. He could feel tears rolling down his cheeks, warm streaks cutting through the frost.

"George?"

George looked up and saw his dad on the stairs. He was in no mood to explain. He stomped past him, shouldering him out of the way so he could go back to his room and lock his things away in his trunk again. If Sam wasn't going to play nice, he wouldn't get to play at all.