Prologue

"Psst. Fred!"

If it was two years ago, Fred would have stayed sound asleep. If he had even heard the person, he would have batted him away. But it was different now. He rolled over and peered out into the darkness beyond his tent flap. His hand was reaching for his wand. He could feel the cool mahogany underneath his fingers.

A face shrouded in shadow peeked in. "Fred?"

Fred's fingers involuntarily tightened around the handle of his wand before he forcibly pulled them away. "What?" He mumbled into his pillow. The sound was nearly incoherent.

"Package from George." The man had a slight Irish lisp, and if it was two years ago, Fred might have cared enough to call him Seamus. Now it was different and he didn't concern himself so much with names.

Fred silently cursed his brother, and turned over onto his back. Running his hands over his face, he held them over his eyes for a moment. "What time is it?"

The man snorted before grumbling, "Too God damn early, that's for damn sure." Fred heard the tent rustle and footsteps pad away from his site.

Fred cursed for only a second. Then he rolled out of bed while he still had a mind to. He slipped his feet into the first pair of shoes that he came to. They felt as if they were both of the left orientation, but Fred didn't particularly care. Shuffling to the sink in his tent, he ran the water for a moment. Just long enough for it to get cold. He stuck head under the faucet only long enough to soothe his chapped lips and throat before grabbing his cloak and pushing through the flap himself.

No one had to point his toward the package, because it looked as if half of the camp had been notified before he had been. There was a crowd of people gathered around it, and a small owl flitted back and forth from person to person, looking for a treat. Sadly enough, none of them had seen an owl treat in what had seemed like eons.

One young woman turned around as Fred approached. Her wand illuminated her gaunt face as she watched him carefully. She leaned over and whispered something into the ear of the girl closest to her and they both giggled. Fred frowned at them, and their laughing faces froze, and then melted into the blank look that they mostly all wore.

Fred didn't even have to ask the group to excuse him, or shove anyone. They parted like the Red Sea and a path was cleared for walking. There on the ground was a small package. Fred wasn't surprised that no one had bothered to pick it up. George was known for hexing his packages, and the last person who had handled a Weasley box wrong had fallen into a fit, complete with the growth of two horns. Fred had thought that funny for a few seconds, and then grew irritated that his brother had single-handedly fell one of his men.

Just because the prat was commandeering a group of rebels in a relatively safe zone didn't mean that they all were. Fred needed that man, if only for his proficiency in growing healing herbs. Instead, he was sent back to the safe house and Fred got stuck with another new graduate that didn't know a Death Eater from a bunny rabbit.

Stooping, the red-haired man touched the box. It had, without a doubt, come from George. There was no fear of adverse side effects; he just wanted to be close with his brothers and his few friends for a moment.

Fred hadn't been aware that he had drifted off until someone cleared their throat behind him. He suspected that it was Seamus, but he clenched his jaw and bit his tongue. Straightening up, he ran his wand along the edge with a severing charm. The box opened easily. Reaching his hand inside, he withdrew…an envelope.

It was typical George, who always admired the box-inside-a-box prank technique. You make them think that they had solved the root of the problem, but the root of the problem was just the root of another problem. Curious, Fred flipped the envelope back and forth. 'Forge' was scrawled onto the front, and a doodle of a Death Eater being zapped was on the back. It was signed Ernie Macmillian. The jagged lines looked like something that Ron would come up with. If he was alive.

Fred's jaw clenched again, but this time it was against his will. Quickly, he tore the top of the envelope off and, finally, there was the note from his brother. He scanned it as he crumpled the envelope in his hand. With three broad steps, he reached the fire and unceremoniously dropped the envelope in. It was quickly followed by the letter itself.

He watched the flames for a moment, and could feel the crowd watching him. In the paragraph-long letter, George had told him that he was sending Fred more people. Three more people, to be exact. These people would portkey to his camp at five in the morning that very day, and if Fred complained about it to either George or Bill, George would personally come and 'talk' some sense into him.

Fred had to admit that his camp was the most dangerous of the two and a half—the half being the stronghold of Grimmauld Place that was currently being held down mostly by Bill and his wife Fleur. He also had to admit that his was the only one that kept losing people. It wasn't all at once, though. Fred's camp was being picked off one-by-one, and had been since the beginning. But Fred didn't want any more people. He didn't want to put any more Order members in danger—they needed everyone that they could have alive and well. However, he knew that his brothers would not agree. There was power in numbers.

Without another thought, he turned to the waiting crowd. The faces were worn and tired, and Fred saw the truth. He saw that they needed these three new people. He needed them to lift the spirits and to tell stories of the true war. He needed to look out into the crowd and see three sets of eyes that still had brightness and hope and the will to survive. The group needed people, if only three, that were still angry enough to fight to the death.

Fred opened his mouth to say something, but found that his throat was too dry. It made a scratching noise. He swallowed, and tried again. "Time check." He called out, and a half dozen people looked to their watches. "Three-Thirty." A woman called back. Fred frowned and again spoke.

"We need another tent set up. It looks like we've got a few more joining us soon. Three, actually." He told them partially because he wanted to let them know that he cared for them, and had hope for them. He told them partially because he wanted to know how they felt.

His question was answered when a hundred voices rose as one cheer. Those who had not already been awake stumbled out of their tents and looked around sleepily. Maybe he wasn't the only one that appreciated new faces.

A rally cry bubbled to the surface, and within minutes a new tent had been magicked up. Beds had been donated to the cause, and had been dragged into the barely-furnished structure. Fred stood and watched in amazement. The three new recruits had done so much already. He could barely imagine what could happen once they had gotten to the camp.

In the confusion, a very young girl had wandered forward near the fire. Fred had forgotten about the owl, but was reminded when the girl hopped by him, jumping to try and reach it. Fred grinned and picked her up, away from the dangerous bonfire. The girl clapped her hands, but continued to reach for the owl.

"Hoot hoot!" She whined, and Fred smiled a small smile. "Meow" he told her. The small girl shook her head and stretched her hands upward, fists clenching and unclenching. Fred let her, knowing full well that the owl wasn't really an owl. There were barely any owls left that were smart enough to evade Lord Voldemort, and the owls that were, were in the possession of Charlie for international communication. The "owl's" name was Ptolemy. He was Katie's cat, finally transfigured after a long bout of trials and errors. They had all figured if he was smart enough to hide from Death Eaters while his family's home was being ransacked, then he was smart enough to deliver packages.

Fred's arm grew tired, and soon his eyes began to droop. He nodded sleepily to the bird, and told him to "Go back home". Wandering through the thinned-out crowd, he found the girl's mother—who used to be known as Patricia Simpson—and handed her back.

He was delirious by the time that he reached his own tent, and didn't even have the energy to take off his shoes before he fell into bed.

The second time that he was awoken that morning was quite similar to the first. His name was called through the flap of his tent, not hissed, and this time he jumped out of bed with the exuberance of a small child. He ran a hand through his hair and straightened his back in an attempt to look authoritative before he headed into the camp.

Again, there was a crowd. This time it was the entire camp and Fred had to shove his way through. There was too much excitement to be heard or noticed. He nearly tripped over the little girl that had chased Ptolemy the night before and yelped. It was then that the group noticed him. They quieted, and Fred had no trouble reaching the center.

Facing the new recruits, he thought that they looked familiar. They looked as if they might have been a part of his other life—the one that had ended two years ago. But since this was a new life, he decided to start new.

Fred opened his arms in what he hoped was a welcoming gesture and grinned a ghost of the Weasley smile. "Welcome." He had wanted to say more, but his throat tightened and he couldn't help but wonder if he was welcoming these people to a place of death.

Instead of fighting for words, he held out his hand to the first newcomer. She was a short blonde with round, childlike cheeks and big, soulful blue eyes. She took Fred's hand with a weak grip of her own, and her arm went limp in his grasp. She introduced herself as Hannah Abbot, and told him quietly that she could maneuver anyone out of anyplace. Fred told her that he was glad to have someone like her, especially since their last navigator had gotten himself lost in the nearby forest, a sad but true fact.

The next new recruit was a gangly boy who looked younger than himself. His skin was tanned, and he looked somewhat strong for his age. Fred held his hand out, and the boy grasped it in a strong grip and pumped it up and down in an enthusiastic, but uncomfortable way. He told Fred that his name was Kevin Whitby, and that he was fairly good at training owls. Fred told him that he was glad for this, because they needed to capture more owls. Ptolemy wasn't enough for all of them.

Fred didn't even look at the last recruit. He just held out his hand. He didn't want to know this person like the other two; he wanted one anonymous face that it was okay to lose. That it was okay to ignore. The new Order member took his hand in a firm grip and shook it in a calm manner. "Did you know that both of your shoes are for the same foot, Weasley?" the person asked. This, coupled with the normal handshake, made Fred curious. He looked up, and two familiar eyes looked back at him. Not taller than him, not shorter than him. The person was just at eye-level. This person needed no introduction.

Without warning, Fred turned back so that he could see the entire camp and so that the entire camp could see him. Just like he thought, there were three sets of eyes that still had brightness and hope and the will to survive. But only one pair of eyes mattered to him, and they belonged to Angelina Johnson.