AN: Obviously, I don't own Fred or George, or HP and the PS. Wish I did. ;o This is a bit of a drabble. It is NOT slash. They just happen to share a bed because they're awesome brothers and best friends. =) And I know this is random/maybe a little boring to some people. I hope you enjoy it anyway. Kthx.
"It's stupid." Fred grumbled, tossing the book aside and stretching out on the sofa bed. George picked up the discarded novel and flipped through the pages, smelling the new-paper smell.
"What's wrong with it?" he asked curiously.
"She got us all wrong." Fred said, shaking his head. "She made us sound like a couple of blithering twits."
"Aren't we?" George asked, refusing to share his twin's negative attitude.
"I dunno." Fred rolled over, yanking the covers with him. George scowled. Fred ALWAYS did that.
The younger of the twins skimmed the book's new, crisp white pages until he found one that mentioned them. It was about when they'd first met Harry, at platform 9 and ¾. "This looks right to me." George commented.
Fred gave a grouchy sounding grunt of disapproval. "Don't read it." he growled. "It's rubbish."
George paid his twin no heed, becoming fascinated with the book. "Wow, poor Harry. . ." he said as he came across a paragraph about Harry missing his parents. "I had no idea a kid that age could have such angst."
"Of COURSE he could." Fred rolled back over, sighing and staring up at the stained ceiling. There was an ugly red splotch on it, where one of their experiments had gone wrong and exploded. "This Rowling bird wrote him that way so the fan girls'd like 'im."
George blinked. "Do you think she wrote us as blithering twits for the same reason?" he asked, turning out the lamp and slouching back into his pillow.
"Girls don't like twits."
"They like us."
"I know that."
"Are we twits?"
"I don't know."
"Fred?"
"What George?"
"Are we real?"
George felt Fred's arm reach over him to turn the lamp back on.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean. . ." George shrugged, brushing ginger bangs away from his face. "If we're in this book, doesn't that mean. . .this Rowling girl made us up?"
Fred scowled thoughtfully, then shrugged in turn. "Dunno. Don't s'pose it matters much, Forge."
"Guess not." George turned the light out again.
"I'm real, dunno about you though."
"I think so." George said, unconvinced.
He felt the binding of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, which lay under his pillow, and he rolled over nervously.
"Fred?"
No answer.
"Blast it, I know you're awake, you bloody git."
Fred sighed. "What, George?"
"Where are we?"
"I dunno." Fred sat up in the dark. "I don't. . .remember."
George swallowed.
"I think. . .we must be in limbo." Fred suggested. "Maybe. . ."
"Rowling must have put us here, in layaway." George pondered.
"Do you think. . .this is where we go when she's not writing about us?"
George shrugged, then realized his twin couldn't see the gesture in the dark. "Dunno." he repeated the well-used word.
"Well, I'm real. And I'm very aware that my tiredness is real too. Good night, Forge."
"Definitely real." George said defiantly into the darkness. "Good night, Gred."