George looks around the forest, the trees whistling in the wind and leaves crunching underfoot. He shivers, jacket now seeming quite thin, especially when compared to Phillips's eskimo-esque coat. Silence suffocates him, but George, entirely unsure of what's going to happen, makes no move to fill it. He instead follows the stocky man diligently as thoughts of his family involuntarily surface to the forefront of his mind.

He wonders if they think he went off and committed suicide—he's done it twice in the last year, after all, shouldn't be too hard to imagine—or if they bought the vacation story, which he highly doubts. Maybe Charlie didn't tell anyone, but he doubts that as well. He wonders if they've really figured out where he's going, what he's going to become: a Death Eater, an infamous follower to the Dark Lord. But Voldemort's dead, so that complicates his view on things. George thought this would be a simple favor—kill a few people (he cringes at how casual the thought sounds), maybe steal something, help get into the Ministry—and then they'd help him get Fred back, but now, he's not so sure.

He wonders about Bill and Fluer, and their kid. He smiles weakly—Bill's probably cursing his name to death. George imagines him now: That fucking idiot, why the hell did he leave? Where'd he go? But George's last scrape of a grin falls as he thinks about the whole family wondering where he is: Ginny, trying to keep a strong front while clasped to a stoic Harry; Ron looking confused and unsure as Hermione sniffles and offers weak reassurance over and over again, mainly to make herself believe it; Molly fretting and wringing her hands, pacing back and forth in the living room, angry one minute and exceedingly depressed the next; Arthur, Bill (of course with Fluer), and Charlie trying to keep level heads and work out some type of plan or something, Fluer dropping unhelpful comments, meaning well; and finally, Percy, awkwardly standing away from everyone, not wanting to get in the way as his brain whirls a mile a minute, whilst drowning in grief—because if anything bad happens to George, now, Percy blames himself, since he's the self-proclaimed cause of it all.

George hurriedly wipes the thought away, never wanting to see his family, even in his mind's eye, distressed over him like that again. Can't they realize he knows what he's doing?—which is a flat out lie, but nonetheless, they should know he'll be fine; he's got one last chance to get Fred back, and he sure as hell isn't going to screw it up.

"Weasley!"

His breathe hitches slightly as his head snaps up. He finds Phillips glaring at him over his shoulder, a few meters away. He must've slowed down in his thoughts…

George quickly jogs up to the silver haired man, who grumbles, yet neither pay heed to the other. The redhead begins shivering again, and discreetly rubs his arms, frowning as his teeth chatter; how far up north are they? It hasn't felt like they've been walking very long, but George doesn't really trust himself nowadays when it comes to measuring time.

The dark indigo sky slowly churns into a pale peach as the sun comes up. George grows irritated at all of this walking—and it hasn't helped that Phillips only tells him to shut up and stay quiet when he asks things. Now that they've been at it long enough, George can safely say he's been walking for a few bloody hours. His breath comes out in little puffs, and the sunrise peeking through the gaps between trees is a welcome sight, warming the Weasley's frozen ears for a short time.

George doesn't notice Phillips stopping until it's too late, and clumsily runs into his back. The man scowls at him for what seems the thousandth time, but doesn't comment. George grins, and he rolls his eyes, muttering a string of curses that even impresses George—and he and Fred have quite the crop of vulgar language.

George walks after the man, turning sharply to the left and past a tree. They walk into a clearing, and Phillips swiftly grips his forearm, pulling him towards a glowing old soup can—a Portkey? George hurriedly grabs hold, and then feels the pull. The light snow dusting the trees and milky, warm sky ball up into an array of colors, swirling and merging all around George. His feet thankfully hit ground and he forces himself to stay upright; Portkeys were never really his strong suit.

George instantly realizes that it's colder than when they were walking, and desperately wishes he weren't an arse like Phillips had claimed and had chosen a thicker jacket to wear. He looks around and finally acknowledges his surroundings, finding himself in a dark alley, the bustle of a city to his right where the alley opens to. He hears Phillips a few paces behind him and looks over his shoulder, finding the man brushing off his coat. Where are they?

"We're in Glasgow—Scotland," the man says, as if reading George's thoughts, which honestly shakes him a bit. George nods, deciding to let the man talk on his own.

"There's a mansion on the edge of the city. We're away from London so no one should be able to recognize me—" Phillips pauses, staring at George "or you, for that matter." He sniffs, walking forward and past the younger man, who follows out of the alley. George squints, used to the dark forest as the sun seems to tackle his eyes in a blinding light. He swerves through the throng of early-risers and keeps note of Phillips's bobbing, silver head.

They continue to walk, and then Phillips takes a sharp right, walking into a busy street with large buildings and a brick road. Even with it being early in the morning, various people walk the sidewalks, talking with each other, Scottish accents thick and sounding very foreign to George's English ears—or ear, rather. He looks at the shop windows in awe, finding the Muggle fashion and other seemingly useless nick-knacks peculiar.

The Victorian-esque buildings tower above him and George looks up, neck craned as he takes in the pretty architecture.

"Come on, Weasley," says Phillips, in front of him, "Buchanan Street isn't all that."

"Here."

George looks up from the road, mouth falling open. A black, elegant, gate stands before him, fence sprouting from the sides and wrapping around the vast expanse of a garden. At the end of the said yard rests a large green mansion with brown trim, more beautiful than any Malfoy Manor as snow sits on window sills and the roof.

"Where—?" George begins to ask, turning towards Phillips beside him, but the man answers before he can finish.

"Kreiger Mansion… the Death Eaters you are about to meet, they pose as Muggles."

George frowns, finding the disguise surprising; Muggles?

The silver haired man notices his confusion and sighs, seemingly agitated. "Come on, Weasley," he grips the redhead's arm and walks literally through the gate, pulling George with him and onto the stone trail that leads up to the manor, "They'll explain it later."

"They…" George whispers, ripping his arm out of Phillips tight grip. The man glares at him but makes no comment, continuing his trek to the home. The both of them maneuver through the garden along the path, shoes clicking rhythmically as George eyes all of the flowers and short, bright green bushes on the sides of the stone, beautiful in the early (or late?—he doesn't know) morning light, snow dusting the petals and leaves, sun already high up. Colorful vegetation (which he thinks is being kept alive magically in the cold) doesn't exactly scream Death Eater to him, but maybe it is supposed to feed the Muggle guise.

Suddenly, something fuzzy brushes up against George. He freezes and gasps, looking down and finding nothing, then hurriedly spotting something of a tail streaking in a bush. Blue eyes stare at him from behind the leaves, and some type of animal bursts out of the plant and towards the home. With a better view, George sees almost blonde fur and black paws, a thick tail disappearing into the manor.

"Bloody hell," George mutters, and Phillips grunts; the former jumps, just now noticing the man.

"Damn Demetrius," Phillips complains, voice growing quieter, "thinks that since he's an Animagus he can do anything…I'll show him," and then continues to walk. George follows, still a bit shaky; an Animagus? He wonders what kind of animal that was—a fox, maybe?—and then wonders if that really was a human.

With the yard so large, they finally make it to the front doorstep. Phillips walks up stairs and onto a porch, George following, and the older man stops in front of a large, tall double-door. He pulls out his wand from his coat's sleeve and taps the doorknob, muttering something. Abruptly, various whizzes and bangs are heard on the other side of the door, as if hundreds of locks are unlocking. With a final sound, the doors click, opening by just an inch, and Phillips pushes them open.

They step into a large foyer with tan walls, vaulted ceilings, and marble flooring. Two grand staircases sit on either side of the back wall, and George looks around in awe of the beautiful architecture.

There's a click of heels, and a woman with old fashioned slightly wavy blonde hair swept to the right steps into view at the top of the stairs to the left, an eyebrow cocked and chin raised defiantly.

"Iz this the one you've been talking about, David?" She murmurs, voice deep and silky, tinged with a slight German accent. George gulps, a bit intimidated by her demeanor. He just now notices the black streak in her hair, an utter contrast to the blonde, along with her blazer, button down, straight pants, and stiletto heels, all exceedingly Muggle-styled. Blood red lips curl into a smirk and a hand with claw-esque black nails trails along the railing as she swaggers down the stairs, all business and dramatics.

Phillips straightens out beside him. "Yes," he answers, and she smiles wolfishly, stepping over to them, a girlish skip in her walk.

The Weasley feels strangely violated as her eyes skim him head to toe, forefinger gliding across his shoulder as she circles him. Her breath is weirdly cool on his neck as she eyes him. "So you are the Weazley, the blood-traitor, the one with… the missing twin?"

He glances at her through the corner of his eye, trying to mask the flinch of his body, but she raises an eyebrow and hums, yet comments no more.

There's a bang, and she rolls her eyes as George's head whips behind him, finding an exuberant pale-blonde man who seems about the same age as him with slightly long, spiky hair, dressed in baggy shorts and a simple white t-shirt bursting through the front doors. He grins wildly, winks at the woman, and George frowns at the large circles in his ear lobes and the two…dot-things under his bottom lip; what're those? He remembers Ron going on about something Harry told him in fifth year… piercings, some Muggle thing. Wizards have piercings, yes, but nothing as extravagant as the non-magical folk do, and this makes George even more confused, but he brushes off the thoughts.

"Hey!" the blonde yells, jabbing a finger in George's direction, and the redhead finds something similar in the man's hair color, also taking note of the large scar streaked under an eye. "You're the new guy!" He darts over, sticking a hand out, which George stares at incredulously.

"I'm Demetrius! And—and you're George," he looks at the woman over George's shoulder real quick, "Right?" he talks again wheeling to George, "You're gonna shake my hand, aren't you? I mean, it's polite, after all…"

George turns to the woman, who mutters various crude-sounding things in what he presumes is German hurriedly. Demetrius snorts, apparently understanding her, but doesn't comment, instead deciding to strike up more conversation with George.

"So!" he starts cheerily, hands tucked in his pockets as George confusedly stares at him, "Gonna join us, eh?" the blonde shrugs, "That's cool, I mean, we help each other out and stuff, you know? We're like siblings! Right, Luxure?"

The woman behind him sniffs (so her name's Luxure?), "Whatever…"

"Aw, hey now," Demetrius protests with a smirk, "don't be like that; you love all of us! Familie," he says with a roll of his tongue, and George wonders if that's in German as well, "remember?"

George looks over his shoulder, eyeing the woman curiously, who stares at the floor with her lips parted prettily, "Familie," she mutters almost dazedly, and Demetrius grins, before swiftly turning on his heel and yelling out into the front yard, a hand cupping over his mouth.

"Hey! C'mon, slowpokes! The new guy's here!"

There's a high pitched squeal, and soon enough a blur of orange and pink and some other colors is rushing into the foyer. A girl pants, beaming, stops to a halt in front of George, and seems about fifteen or sixteen. He takes in the pinkish, orange hair pulled into pigtails and bright blue eyes, tan skin and freckles sprinkling her nose; the peach strapless top that stops above her navel, the tribal looking bracelets and jewelry, the yellow bandana tied tightly around her arm, brown miniskirt, yellow boots, and the pelt of some type of tan animal fur tied around her waist, along with the dagger holstered to her belt.

She sticks a small hand out, chest heaving, and flicks her bangs out of her face, in the same speedy style as Demetrius. "Hiya!" she greets, vigorously shaking his hand which she actually took hold of, unlike the man previous, "I'm Marg! Well, my actual name's Marguerite—anyways! I'm really glad you're joining our clan—er, familie, I mean," she corrects herself, voice all the while chipper and lined with an Australian accent.

Marg cocks her head to the side, frowns, and lowers their clasped hands, squeezing his as he stays still, confused, "You okay? Ooh!—" she smiles largely again, hands clapping together as two more people walk in the doors behind her, then they finally close shut with a thud, "you need a nickname, don't—"

"No."

Marg whimpers slightly, looking saddened, and George watches a obsidian haired man slide up to the blonde one, with scars on his face that remind him of Remus Lupin and piercing electric green eyes that are nearly yellow; their shoulders press together immediately, and George also spots a burly looking older bloke with long brunette hair pulled back into a ponytail and a goatee, who, despite first glance has an oddly calming aura about him trailing behind and halting behind Marg.

The Weasley lastly looks at Luxure over his shoulder, finding her lips pressed thinly together and hands balled into fists, chin jutted out; she was the one who cut Marg off.

"I will not allow him to join us; he can eat here and sleep here and spar with us and go on missions with us, but I will not stand for him being with…," she pauses, eyes glossy as if about to say something more, but then looks up again with a steel gaze, "us."

And Demetrius snorts, the black haired man rolls his eyes, the taller, older one grins, and Marg sends the woman a look.

George looks at everyone single one of them. These people can't be Death Eaters… the large one and the blonde, sure, but… they… He shakes his head, highly confused, and out of his peripheral vision sees Phillips cock an amused eyebrow.

"Bloody hell…"

"Alright," Marg starts, legs pulled up to her chest. George's eyes trail around the room they're all in—it's deep blue walls and fireplace and small window; the book shelves and Victorian couches and the desk with various maps and those Muggle gun things atop it. She raises an arm, the other wrapped around her shins from her perch on the rug near the fireplace as George sits across from her. She points towards the tall muscular man who had recently shucked off his brown trench coat, who's now sitting at the desk. Dazed, George sips some hot chocolate.

"That's Joe, also my papa," George's eyebrows fly up and he nearly chokes on his drink, but doesn't comment. She smirks, then pointing at the blonde haired man hanging upside down off of a couch, now garbed in pajama pants and a grey sweatshirt, watching the flames, "that's Demetrius, and that's Marshall," she gestures towards the same black haired man from before, who's sitting next to Demetrius Indian style, poring through an ancient looking book, chin resting in a hand as the other is ready to flip a page, "and they're both dating… kind of."

Marshall's eyes flick towards them, glaring and Demetrius continues drumming his fingers on his stomach, unfazed. George frowns, still confused, but growing to like Marg—surprisingly, considering she's a Death Eater, but she doesn't really act like one, which is just adding towards George's pounding headache. He takes another sip of cocoa.

"And finally," she gestures towards the blonde woman sitting in a cushioned bay window, "we have Luxure."

"So," he asks, "you're sure that—"

"Yes," Marg insists, untying the yellow bandana around her forearm yet again, letting the fabric slip into her lap and onto her nightgown. She holds her arm out, the Dark Mark almost glowing on her tan, otherwise smooth and creamy, skin. She quickly skillfully ties it back on with one hand after George gets a quick glance, as if it's something to be ashamed of… but it isn't, right?

George shakes his head, and Marg launches off into a deeper explanation of their predicament. She says that she met Joe, or her papa, rather, in the summer after her second year when George was in his seventh. She said something had happened with her parents reluctantly, and that she lived around Knockturn Alley ever since she was admitted to Hogwarts. She said Joe took her in, gave her a place to stay and food to eat. He was already Death Eater then, and George was surprised to hear the Luxure and Demetrius were in the same classes as him, though they dropped out in their sixth year, which must've been the perfect time to do so, with all of the Goblet of Fire mess, Cedric Diggory dying, and the whole thing about Voldemort coming back.

"You're kidding!" George exclaims, having never noticed them, "What houses were they in?"

"Huffleuff!" Demetrius yells loudly from the couch, ignoring Joe, Luxure, and Marshall's annoyed looks. He scrambles off and plops down next to Marg, legs criss-crossed, smirking at George's frown. The orange glow from the fire plays across his skin, making the crude scar stretched across his cheek light eerily.

"Thought'd I'd be in Slytherin, didn't you?" he snorts, "That'll prove some stereotypes wrong for you. And," he adds gleefully, "Marshall was in Slytherin and we were best friends. Everyone thought we were crazy, but they knew not to mess with us." George glances at Marshall, finding him smiling behind his book, as Demetrius continues, "And old Luxure," he jabs his thumb behind his shoulder, "was in Ravenclaw. Marg was in Hufflepuff too," he says, gesturing towards the girl beside him who nods, "and Joe was in…," Demetrius pouts, eyebrows furrowing, and he yells over his shoulder.

"Where were you, anyways?"

"Not going to tell you," Joe mutters from the desk, "Never have, never will,—and neither will Marg."

The blonde grumbles as the orange-haired girl grins smugly, but he waves her off and continues.

"Anyhow, Marshall…," Demetrius pauses, as if carefully choosing his words, "…wasn't liked, so to speak. He heard about the Death Eaters, and he joined them, and I go wherever Marshall goes—…not that I have an actual family, anyways. And then Luxure, goddamn she's a fucking veteran! Been looking up things all her time at Hogwarts and interrogating Dumbledore and Snape, but she went to Greece for a little bit after dropping out, and then came back after the Battle."

"I mind the fact that you are talking about my personal life and past behind my back," Luxure pipes up, making the trio turn.

"Technically," Demetrius banters, "It is you that is behind our backs."

Luxure breaths heavily, hand clenched in her pants. She scoffs and pushes herself away from the window, lips pulled into a thin line. She stops beside the fireplace and everyone stills.

"Enough of this senseless talking!" she yells, pointing at George, "Either he gets the mark right now or I'm kicking him out!" She whirls towards Joe, who's sitting at the desk, "We don't have time for this!"

"Luxure—" Marg starts warningly, but Marshall's voice interrupts.

"She's right," he agrees, finally closing the book shut after folding down a corner and setting it beside him, standing up and walking next to Luxure, "we don't have time for this. This isn't an inn; George gets his mark now or he should leave." His eyes flick towards Demetrius, and George watches his expression soften, voice exceedingly lower as he murmurs, "We can't put it off any longer…"

"Fine," Demetrius answers curtly, annoyed, standing up; Marg bites her lip and stands as well, glancing at George and then jerking her head up; and he rises too.

"I want to do it," Luxure says a bit too quickly, a bit too eagerly. Marshall rolls his eyes and Demetrius snorts. There's a loud screech of the chair, and Joe comes over, looking grim.

"No, Luxure."

"Why—"

"No." Joe raises his hand, the action alone somehow affectively silencing her. Luxure purses her lips then sweeps out of the room, heels clicking all her way up the stairs. Demetrius frowns.

"Damn, she's a drama queen. I hope she doesn't expect pancakes in the morning—"

He grunts as Marshall elbows him harshly, glaring. "Can't you be serious, for once?"

George furrows his brow, saying a bit stupidly, "I don't see what the big deal is."

Demetrius smirks, shooting Joe a look. "The big deal is that getting the Dark Mark hurts like hell. It's a spell created by Voldemort—you think it's going to just tickle and you'll have a skull and snake on your arm? It's fucking agony—"

"Would you shut up, Demetrius?"

George's eyes widen and he turns to Marg, finding her with fists clenched and eyes hard. She softens a little, looking to Joe, gulping.

"Does he have to get the mark, Papa? He… we…," she begins wringing her hands, "he—he doesn't have to—I mean, it's permanent! And—and George, he isn't like us—he isn't made for this! His—he has a reputation, Papa! We can't—you—I won't let that be thrown away."

Joe sighs as George watches, "You know we need the others' help if George wants to get his brother back. I'm sure they'll be wary—he's a Weasley, for God's sake—he has to do this. It'll be a way to fake his… allegiance. Just like you," he adds, "just like you and Demetrius, and Marshall… and Luxure."

George licks his lips, a million thoughts running through his head—they… they're faking everything? He looks at Marg, her face somber, but she nods nonetheless, stepping away. The older man takes a step forward, wand out.

"Let's make this quick," he mutters, but he doesn't ask George if he's sure he wants to do this—to guise as a Death Eater—to pretend to be a traitor of his family, and George wonders if he knows what it's like to be so desperate you'll do anything.

The redhead holds his left arm out, and he sees Marshall step closer to Demetrius and Marg look away.

"Ready?" Joe asks, his voice soft. George nods.

"Ready."

"Maledictonium."

George's eyes widen, mouth open in a silent scream, barely conscious of Marg's blue eyes swimming with tears appearing in front of him.

"It's okay, George," she insists, as agony sweeps through him, hearing and seeing as if underwater.

"It's okay."

Oddly, it isn't Marg's voice anymore.

A/N: EXHIBIT A OF WHY YOU SHOULD NEVER TRUST ME.

I have lots of excuses as to why this chapter took a fucking month, but only a handful of legitimate reasons. School started, which is not only taking away time to write but has been emotionally taxing—I've been a little depressed and unmotivated. This chapter was also really hard to write, and I'm not sure why—maybe I'm just horrid at introductions.

Speaking of introductions, I hope you don't mind the OCs, but since many of the main Death Eaters (which will be in the story soon—George is going to see Rookwood, who, for those who don't know, killed Fred, so stay tuned for that) either died or are now most likely in Azkaban, I had to make it work. I've worked really hard on their backstories and personalities and character development, and one in particular will play a huge part in George's story—another will also be a huge part in the sequel, and then that one and someone else will complete this (surprise!) trilogy.

Yes, this universe will be a trilogy. I'm beginning to work on the two sequels when I really shouldn't, because I need to stay focused on this. Ugh I get distracted way too easily.

Anyways, I hope I've still got some readers—I value your opinions a lot!

Please review!

PS: I really don't like this chapter at all, but I've tried tons of times to fix it and it never seems to get better. Hope it isn't as bad as I think it is…

PPS: Buchanan Street is a huge street in Glasgow, which is the most populated city in Scotland. Also, the "voice" at the end is Fred's, in case you didn't figure it out~

PPPS: I heard on the HP Facts tumblr that in order to get the Dark Mark a spell had to be cast, and that it was extremely painful (Voldemort would also pause and ask if you were sure you wanted to become a Death Eater. If you said no, you'd die). The spell's name wasn't mentioned, and since a lot of the names come from Latin I used a variation of maledicta, which means curse.