Rating: PG
Word Count: 2269
Characters: Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Albus Dumbledore, Eurydice MacEoghan (OC)

"We think we've come up with something that might work, Sir."

It was the following morning, and the twins were once more sitting across the desk from Albus Dumbledore. Crisp, golden autumn sunlight was spilling through the windows and glinting off the many whirring and clicking instruments that filled the room. Dumbledore did not interrupt as they explained about the Sponge charm they had discovered, and the idea they had for investing the faux wand with their own power to boost the spell.

"We know it's dangerous, Sir. We know there are -- er -- certain risks involved. But we're very willing to take those risks ourselves," George added hurriedly.

At last, the old headmaster nodded. "Very impressive, lads. It seems that this plan of yours has every chance of working, even considering the risks."

He gave them a sharp look which they returned steadily, and he saw that they understood well what they were getting into.

"But," he continued, "there are still many more details which need to be considered. Have you found the proper materials for the false wand you intend to make?"

They shifted uncomfortably in their seat before Fred replied, "Well, Sir, that was something we wanted to talk to you about. Harry mentioned --"

"You've involved Harry in your plans?" There was a sharp edge to Dumbledore's voice.

"No," said Fred quickly. "No, not involved exactly. We were just talking about the wand, since -- er -- he's seen it more recently than just about anyone else, and Harry mentioned seeing a yew tree in the graveyard where Voldemort -- er -- came back."

Dumbledore sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised inquiringly. "Go on."

"Well, we were just thinking," George said in a rush. "If Voldemort could use his father's bones to get his body back, would it be possible that using a tree growing near his grave would help somehow, too?"

Dumbledore looked thoughtful for a moment. "Yes, that might affect the spell's outcome, I suppose. But Tom Riddle Sr was a Muggle. Voldemort could use his bones to rebuild his own body because Riddle was his father. But a wand is a magical item, not part of a wizard's body."

"Oh." The twins looked disappointed.

"Little Hangleton is a Muggle village," Dumbledore continued. "However, there was a young witch who lived there at one time. Do you know the story of Voldemort's parents?"

"Only what Harry's mentioned," Fred replied. "That Voldemort's father was a Muggle who left his mother when he learned she was a witch. She died giving birth to him, and he was sent to a Muggle orphanage. He came back and killed his father when he was a teenager."

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, Voldemort's mother was a witch. She lived in the village in a small house left to her by her father. She had just finished her sixth year at this school when she fell in love with Tom Riddle. That is as much as anyone knows for certain. She sent an owl to Headmaster Dippet that summer, saying that she would not be returning for her seventh year. Eight months later, the name 'Tom Marvolo Riddle' appeared in the Hogwarts book, and she was dead."

The three of them were silent for a moment.

"So," Fred said tentatively, "She could be buried there as well? I mean, if she's buried anywhere near the yew tree, that could make all the difference, right?"

"It could indeed," said Dumbledore, and some of the old twinkle was back in his eyes.

They could not Apparate into the Little Hangleton cemetery without being noticed. However, Dumbledore had told them about a cottage nearby which was unlikely to be occupied.

They arrived with a sharp popping noise in a small, dark kitchen. A thick layer of dust covered everything. The washing up was still sitting in the sink, but it was clear that no one had lived there for some time.

They left the cottage, quietly closing the door behind them as if closing a tomb, and walked down through an overgrown garden which belonged to a somewhat shabby and rundown manor house. Beyond the manor and down the hill, they found the graveyard, lying between the house and the rest of the village.

The graveyard was almost as overgrown as the garden had been, except for a section clearly in current use by the village. Stones of greater and lesser legibility jutted up at odd angles, or lay resigned to obscurity in the long grass. A number of trees grew in the graveyard, their roots nudging the stones this way and that, but the yew tree was easy to spot. It was the largest, and stood almost at the centre of the graveyard, its canopy shading more than fifty stones.

"Dammit," George said. "There really are some things that would take less time if there were still two of us."

The low iron gate gave a screech of protest as they pushed it open. They found Tom Riddle Sr's grave quickly enough; the stone was large and ornate, proclaiming a monied family. His parents' stone stood nearby, equally pompous. But nowhere near them could they locate the stone with the name Dumbledore had given them.

They searched every stone still standing until the daylight began to fade. At last, they flopped down amongst the roots of the yew tree in despair.

"We're never going to find it," said Fred. "She's not here."

"Maybe we missed it," George suggested. "We'll look again --"

"The stone you're looking for is that one you've got your feet up on."

They jumped at the sound of the unexpected voice, looking around wildly. A ghost was leaning against the yew tree, looking down at them curiously. She was young -- younger than they were -- slender and very pretty, and she was gazing at them with narrowed eyes.

"Who are you?" asked George, too startled to be polite.

"I've been watching you all afternoon," she said. "So few people come here anymore. I heard you talking to yourself. You're a wizard, aren't you?"

"We're not talking to ourselves," explained Fred. "There's two of us in here. It's complicated. If you've been following us around all day, why haven't we seen you before now?"

The ghost looked away toward the setting sun. "I'm hard to see in the daylight," she said simply. "Why are you looking for me?"

"Looking for --?" said Fred. "You're not --! You're his mum?! But you're just a girl! You're barely older than our sister."

She smiled at them a little sadly and sat down on a root nearby. "I heard you say my name when you first got here. It made me curious; that's why I was following you. No one has come to see me in a long time." She nodded toward their feet. "Turn the stone over and you'll see."

It was not a very large stone, though the white marble from which it was made was of good quality, and it was only a moment's work to turn it face up. And indeed, once righted, the stone read, "Eurydice MacEoghan, 1909 - 1927". The only decoration was a small serpent carved between the name and the dates.

"The symbol of my house," she said, tracing it as if she could touch it. "I was so proud of it. It doesn't seem so much like something to be proud of anymore." She sighed. "You're here because of him, aren't you? Because of my son?" She did not meet their eyes.

"Yes," admitted George, still trying to reconcile the pretty young girl before him with the evil and horror perpetrated by Voldemort.

"I know what he is," she said, still gazing at the serpent. "I've always known."

"How --?" George cleared their throat. "How could you know? You said yourself hardly anyone ever comes here, and I bet none of them are wizards."

"I had a bit of a gift for Divination," she replied, looking up at last. "The most promising Seer to come to Hogwarts in a dozen years, I was told. There was a job waiting for me in the Department of Mysteries, if I had wanted it." She sighed and looked away again, this time up at the derelict manor house.

"But then I met Tom. He was clever and handsome, and he always made me laugh. But he was a Muggle. My father would have been horrified if he had lived to see it. I loved him, though --" Her voice trailed away.

"But he left you," said Fred. "When he found out you were a witch."

She looked back at them curiously. "No," she said. "No, he didn't care that I was a witch." She sighed. "His parents found out. They wouldn't hear of it. They forbade him to see me. But by then, I was pregnant. I wrote my letter to Hogwarts relinquishing my place."

A sad look settled on her face. "We kept seeing one another in secret, but he couldn't sneak away often. He told me that as soon as he turned eighteen, there was no way they could deny him a share of the family fortune. He swore that, as soon as that happened, he would marry me, and we would go away together. But it was never going to happen, and I knew it. I didn't have the heart to tell Tom, though.

"The night our baby was born, Tom couldn't get away. I was all alone. A woman from the village heard my cries and came to find me, but it was too late. I told her my baby's name, and then I died," she ended simply.

"Do you know what happened after that?" asked George softly.

The girl looked so sad that he longed to put his arms around her and comfort her, but he knew it was impossible.

"Yes," she said quietly. "Yes, Tom told me the rest of it. His parents didn't care anymore once I was dead. He was allowed to visit my grave as often as he liked." Her voice was bitter. "There wasn't even a stone for me until he was old enough to claim some of the family's fortune. But that's why he stayed. He hated his parents, but he wanted to be near me, so he stayed with them for sixteen years." She shook her head sadly.

"Tom told me that the woman from the village had brought the baby up to the house, but his parents wouldn't take him, so he was sent to a Muggle orphanage. When Tom was old enough, he tried to track down our son, but he couldn't find him. We talked about how nice it would be if he had been adopted by a family who loved him. But I knew he never was, and I never told Tom what I Saw."

"What did you See?" asked Fred.

"I Saw what my baby would become." There were tears in her eyes. "I saw evil and death and a terrible lust for power. All Slytherins are ambitious, but we're not cold-hearted killers who will stop at nothing to gain our own ends.

"When he came back, I knew him at once. He looked just like his father had when we first met. I was afraid," she confessed. "I hid, and didn't speak to him. Perhaps I should have. He sat all day beneath my tree, staring up at the house. In the evening, he went up. I saw the green light. He didn't come back this way." Ghostly tears spilled from her eyes. "Five days later, they brought my Tom and his parents down and buried them there." She waved a pale hand at the conspicuous, silent monuments.

"I waited. For days I sat, waiting by his grave, hoping he'd come back to me and we'd be able to touch at long last. But he wasn't afraid to die like I was. I had known what would happen to my son if I died, and I was terrified. But Tom and I had sixteen years together after that, and death didn't scare him anymore. He was gone. He was just bone in the ground. And our son took even that from me two years ago," she finished bitterly.

"I'm sorry," said George, clearing their throat, which felt tight after hearing the girl's story. "That's really awful."

"And now you're here," she said, looking at them again as if from far away. "Why have you come to me now? What do you want?"

They looked uncomfortable. "Well," said Fred, "We really weren't expecting to find you here. Not like this, I mean," he added, gesturing toward her transparent body. "It's this tree, really. We were hoping that you were -- er -- buried near it. That some of your essence, I guess you might say, had gone into the tree."

She looked at them blankly. "What do you need my tree for?"

"We're -- er -- it's complicated." Fred said.

"Try me," Eurydice suggested with a slight smile. "I was frequently accused of being one of the cleverest witches at Hogwarts. I'm sure I'll understand if you give me a chance."

So, reluctantly, they told her about the wand and the spell and the idea that a blood connection might help.

"We know he's your son," George finished apologetically, "but --"

"No, I understand," she said sadly. She made as if to put her hand on their knee, but drew back again. "My son he may be, and I love him, always. But he is evil," she said with conviction. "He cannot be permitted to go on."

She looked directly into their eyes. "I will help you."

The Power of Two © 2005 Skjaere