I Want to Touch You

A/N: Not enough people are hitting this or reviewing! I see poorly-written single-chaptered just-published fics involving Harry and (insert name here) with over a thousand hits and a bazillion (yes, that’s a word) reviews, and I’m like, where’s the love? Oh, but I love those people who have reviewed. Don’t you know that you’re gods? And you all can be gods! How, you ask? By clicking on the link on the bottom that says “Review I Want to Touch You.” I swear, it takes about fifteen seconds. You don’t even have to be a member of the site! And each one means so much to me. My review page is like a little trophy room. At fanfiction.net I had over fifty reviews for eight chapters. Goddamn them for canceling my goddamn account. Um…sorry, onto the story!

I Want to Touch You: Chapter 11


A few days later Fred was well enough to leave the hospital wing and return to classes. His second class that day was Divination. The rest of the students were well on their way with the projects. Paint and loose paper littered the room and there was a general buzz of activity. Professor Lamron gave Fred an extension. She didn’t ask Fred if he knew where George was.

Most of the students looked over at Fred every few minutes and whispered with someone near them. Fred pretended not to notice, staring intently at his blank paper. He tried to guess what they were saying. Did they know he’d fucked George? What did they think of him?

About halfway through the class there came a knock at the door. Professor Lamron opened it and a tall, smiling, professional-looking man in black asked her something quietly. She turned around. “Fred? Fred, will you please go with this man?”

Fred looked up, surprised. He got up slowly and walked toward the door. Everyone stared at him and when he shut the door behind him he heard a roar of noise from the classroom and then Professor Lamron’s voice, “Quiet! Quiet! That is none of your business! Return to your project
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Outside the door the man said, “Hi, Fred, I’m Dr. Goodman,” and proffered his hand. Fred looked at it uneasily before shaking it.

“We’re going to become good friends over the next few weeks, Fred,” the man said.

“What? Who are you?” Fred felt uneasy.

Dr. Goodman ignored the question. “It’s alright. Dumbledore sent for me, he trusts me. Come, let’s find an empty classroom nearby in which to chat.”

Fred followed him down the corridor and into a dark room. The man lit the lamps with his wand and pulled out two comfortable chairs, gesturing for Fred to sit in one of them.

When they were both seated he said to Fred, “Take this potion, it will help you relax.” He handed Fred a flask of grayish liquid. Fred just looked at it and then at Dr. Goodman.

“You expect me to drink a strange potion given me by a man I’ve only just met?”

Dr. Goodman’s smile widened so that his face appeared almost maniacal. “Fred, I’m here to help you.”

“Help me?” Fred asked cautiously.

He nodded. “With your problems.”

Fred realized that this was all because of the events in the Potions room. He panicked. How much did this man know? He would have to be careful…

“Are you an official from the Ministry of Magic?” he asked.

“No,” the man replied, “I am a psychotherapist.”

Fred’s jaw dropped. He had heard about those in his Muggle Studies class. “I didn’t know they existed in the wizarding world.”

“Only rarely,” the doctor responded. “Dumbledore believes that they are a necessary asset.”

Fred’s mind was swimming. So they thought he had problems. All of a sudden he felt that this man’s eyes were the eyes of the whole school, that everyone was watching him. He looked down at the flask. He didn’t want to relax, to reveal his life and innermost thoughts to a judgmental stranger. But Dumbledore himself had sent this man. He didn’t want to know what would happen if he defied Dumbledore. And he trusted the headmaster…didn’t he?

He gulped down the liquid. As he responded to the doctor’s questions about his early childhood and home life, he began to open up.

“Did you ever fight with your brother?” Dr. Goodman asked.

“Not often,” Fred replied. “It was the rest of the world that we were fighting.”

“How do you mean?”

“The world – it tried to tell us what was normal. I think it won.”

Dr. Goodman looked confused. He tried to steer the conversation. “So you were angry?”

“Yes. I’ve been very angry with all of them.” He looked Mr. Goodman directly in the eyes. “I’m angry with you for telling me I have problems.”

“Fred,” the doctor said calmly, “I am not here to tell you that you have problems. I am here to help you.”

Fred knew that the statement made little sense but his mind was too lazy from the potion to figure out why.

The doctor continued quickly. “So, did you ever act out your anger?”

Fred’s face darkened suddenly. He looked away.

“Did you ever act out your anger, Fred?” the doctor repeated.

“Yes,” Fred whispered. A small voice in the back of his mind screamed out for him to be quiet.

“When, Fred?”

Again the voice cried out in horror, Stop, stop, but it grew fainter and Fred’s lips opened.

“After quidditch.”

“Go on.”

Fred couldn’t stop himself. “I was so forceful, didn’t give him a choice.”

“You beat him up?”

Fred looked at the man strangely. Didn’t he know? Wasn’t this why the doctor was here? Because of the incest? Something was wrong here, but the words kept tumbling off of Fred’s tongue.

“He cried out for me to stop, but I was in a blind rage. I wanted control. He was crying, but I still rammed it into him.”

“Your fist?”

Fred looked at him cautiously. “Why are you here?” he demanded. “Tell me!”

“Fred, I…”

“Cut the crap! What did I do wrong? How can I know what to tell you and what to keep to myself? How much do you know, faggot?” Fred screamed.

“Continue the story,” Dr. Goodman stated calmly.

Fred’s eyes softened involuntarily at the command. “My dick.”

“What?”

“Not my fist, my dick.”

“I don’t understand…”

“I raped my brother,” Fred said.

There was silence in the room. Then the doctor asked, “In a dream?”

Fred knew that Dr. Goodman would believe anything so long as it wasn’t so unorthodox as actual non-consensual incest. And there was a lapse in the potion, a small space of clear thinking. “Yes, in a dream.”

The doctor nodded his head. “And did George remember this dream?”

“I don’t know,” Fred answered mechanically.

“Right, so, well. But in the dream it was just for power, though, you didn’t enjoy it.”

Fred had hated doing that to his brother and knew he’d regret it for the rest of his life. But for Christ’s sake, he couldn’t have gotten it up like that if George didn’t make him horny, drive him mad with passion. “No,” he finally said, “I didn’t enjoy it.”

“Good, good,” the doctor said, relieved. “Well, I’d also like to talk about a more recent dream – a dream that might have actually taken place somewhere between the imagination and reality.”

Fred leaned forward. Finally this man was telling him something. “How do you mean?” he asked.

The doctor continued. “It’s hard to explain. But it’s almost as if you projected a copy of yourself to a different world where the rules of this plane of existence don’t completely apply – like how in a dream sometimes things don’t match up or make sense - and whatever happened to you there affected your physical being. What occurred in your ‘dream’ really happened.”

All of a sudden Fred could taste the mix of fluids fresh on his tongue. He grew paranoid and the effects of the potion began to slowly wane.

“I know about the dream,” Doctor Goodman said.

“How?”

“George told me all about it.”

Fred was shocked. “George knows about it?”

“He was there, Fred.”

Fred’s eyes darted about the room. Whispering voices closed in around him and the room grew darker. Dr. Goodman was demonic, laughing, with long yellow teeth. The world went black, thank God.

When Fred awoke the room and the doctor had returned to normal. He stood up quickly and began to run to the door.

“Fred,” said the doctor, “Stop! It’s okay!”

Fred turned around slowly at the door.

s jus just the aftereffects of that particular potion. Severe paranoia.”

Fred remembered when he had tried a drug with George. It had made him feel great for a few hours until he crashed into hopeless depression. This was similar, he presumed.

He backed away from the door and a few moments later Dumbledore entered. “Hello, Fred,” he greeted. “I just came in to check how things went. I know the potion was supposed to run out a few moments ago.”

“Fine, fine,” replied the doctor.

“Fantastic,” said Dumbledore, and he left.

So Dumbledore did know about the meeting. This was weird.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” said the doctor, smiling. “I will see you again shortly.”

Before Fred could respond he left the room. Fred was left alone, spent and confused. He sat down. So the school thought he was hurting his brother? It came as somewhat of a relief to know that they didn’t know the sexual side of it. But now the psychiatrist knew…would he tell Dumbledore? Of course he would. That was probably his job – report what he heard to the headmaster. Let him know how violent or uncontrollable Fred was. Fred smiled as he thought what Dumbledore’s reaction might be when the doctor said, “Fred, um, raped his, uh, George….in a dream, of course. But, well, there you have it.”

Fred knew he was missing his next class, but he didn’t care. He just sat in the empty classroom, trying to sort out the events of the past few days.

That night George returned to the dorm at one o’clock in the morning. Dumbledore had said he was well enough, but that they would have to have regular meetings to see how the potion was working.

George slipped into his own bed. Fred was still awake and heard his brother rustling under the sheets. He thought of getting up and going over to George’s bed to apologize, to take him into his arms. But how could he after all he had put his twin through? George probably never wanted to see him again. Fred had fucked him, driven him to madness, and then there was the dream. The cuts. God, what if he had given George the cuts? Was he, Fred, responsible for all events in the dream? For George’s gross physical state? And if the dream was real, he had fucked a small girl and a goat. In front of his brother. It had seemed so natural at the time, but…Fred couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. He had problems – that much was evident from the doctor’s visit. So what the fuck were they? Why couldn’t he name them when he knew they should be obvious?

He fell into an uneasy sleep.

George waited until he heard his brother’s breathing grow deep and even. He then made his way slowly through the dark to Fred’s bed and drew back the curtain. Fred’s face was drawn with worry lines and he moaned in agony in his sleep.

Fred was walking down a dark corridor. “George,” he called, “where are you?” An endless trail of blood led him deeper into the black monotony of flat walls.

“George,” he whispered softly in his sleep.

George felt his heart tumble in his body at hearing his name emitted from Fred’s lips. His breath caught in his throat. “Fred,” he said. His voice was pleading, soft.

Fred spun around in his dream. He began opening and shutting doors frantically. “George? George! Talk again! Where are you?”

George saw his brother’s head thrash mutely. He began to cry. “Oh, God, it’s all so wrong, fucked up,” he whispered.

Fred began to jerk convulsively in his sleep. “Fred,” George said, “Fred, stop it!” He laid a hand on Fred’s shoulder and his brother was immediately calmed.

“George?” He asked faintly. He was still in the empty corridor. He felt velvety wet lips on his long neck, but saw no one. He closed his eyes as the smooth mouth moved lower and then turned away. A cheek rested against his upper chest and he felt a body lower softly onto his. Hair tickled his chin as an ear rested next to the cheek. An arm spread across his chest.

Fred relished the heaviness of this body on his. With his eyes closed, the sense of touch was more strong and electrifying. Every movement and place of contact sent pulses through his body.

He felt even, deep breathing and didn’t know if it belonged to him or to the person on top of him. He opened his eyes to see George curled up, laying on Fred’s chest and legs. His sweet calm face was tear-streaked. Fred ached to touch George’s soft cheek with his long, slender finger, but refused to move. George was too pure.

Fred pushed all thoughts out of his head and fell into the soft warmth of his brother.