Fred and George never asked, always knew. They shared their secrets with her in tree houses and bus stops. Her other brothers ignored her, but the twins knew better. They taught her every trick they knew, and showed her how to make do with what little they had. Fred covered her eyes the first time they guided her to their secret hiding place; George took her lips between his fingers when showing her how to whistle.
No one else caught the flittering gleams of amusement but her; four identical eyes, all different shades of amber-flecked Technicolor madness, catching her eyes over the dinner table, making her hide a smirk behind her fork.
As if she was a part of their whole, they appeared by her side the minute she felt the tears sting the back of her eyes. Her hands fit perfectly in theirs, George on the right, Fred on the left. She never needed to worry about not having her wand hand free; she was never so safe as when she stood between them. Her hands kept them close, reining them in, slowing them down; she showed them the small treasures only she bothered to notice. When she was too safe, too shy, they spread out, unfurling like two tangerine wings. They helped her fly away.
Ginerva never smiled, not really. The last time they remembered was the night before the twins left for Hogwarts the first time, leaving her truly alone for the first time. The moon hid and the clouds cast shadows larger than they could imagine, though they always believed themselves still larger. She slipped into their room, tiny feet padding softly. They sat on the edge of the bed, watching her, already dressed.
"One last adventure—"
"—For old time's sake?"
She smiled, brilliantly, blindingly, and their hearts ached already feeling the loss.
After her first disastrous year, Ginerva developed a few habits that concerned her mother.
She would no longer eat chicken. Mirrors made her a bit skittish. But most of all, an inexplicable anger filled her blood like a disease, and Ginerva became cold. Molly no longer looked her daughter in the eyes, fearing the daggers glittering there. Ron and the other boys skirted around her, like the Dark Lord would suddenly jump out of her fingertips.
Only the twins remained unchanged. With the help of Fred and George, she snuck off to Diagon Alley and spent all her money on a set of expensive quills meant for Aurors and particularly paranoid wizards. With them, she wrote long letters to herself, making sure there were no longer spans of time she could not remember. 'Not a diary,' she told herself. 'A catalogue.' They seemed to understand, and helped her hide it from the others.
It was, however, the small gestures that meant the most to her. They still held her hands without flinching. And though they held less humor, more compassion, their eyes still met hers unwaveringly. Behind the softness, she saw their own gleam of steel and it made her stronger. Fred and George held the same anger, the same simmering despairing rage at those who had dared harm a part of their whole.
And so they plotted.
Draco Malfoy never saw it coming.