George Weasley was having a very strange dream indeed. Perhaps it isn't so very unpleasant, he thought, wandering over a carpet of jewel green grass, but it certainly is unusual. For years now, George's dreams had become fainter and fainter, color slowly leaching away until he was left with a dreamscape in grayscale. Sort of depressing, really.

This, however, was simply gorgeous. George couldn't remember when he had last seen colors so vibrant. This dream even included a pleasant breeze warmed by the sun. George felt comfortable enough here to wander with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his eyes closed.

"George?"

He stopped in midstride, almost afraid to look around. He hadn't heard that voice in over 50 years. Sure enough, his ear didn't fail him. He stared back at the 18-year-old carbon copy of himself: flaming red hair, mischievous grin, long gangly body that had yet to even out.

"Hey, I missed you, bud."

George's eyes crinkled. "I missed you, too. You still look so young!"

"Same to you."

George looked down at himself and saw that this was true. He looked every inch the young man he did at age 18. He was even wearing the loud dragon-leather jackets they both had bought upon opening their shop. Amazing how he could still recall every detail.

"So," said George, walking up to greet him, "Where are we and what brings you here?"

Again, that grin. "This is Stoatshead Hill. I'm here to meet you."

"I can see that. Why?"

"To take you on through."

Somehow, that answer didn't seem to fit. "What do you mean?"

His twin gave him an odd stare. "Through to the next life."

George returned his stare. "There is no next life. I'm dreaming. What are you talking about?"

"Maybe you had better sit down."

"I feel fine!" said George indignantly, "Will you just tell me what is going on?"

"All right, but I still think you should sit down. There's a bit of a climb ahead of you."

George considered it for a moment, then decided that he wanted to test out these young knees anyway and flopped down on the grass. It felt just as springy to his bum as it had to his feet.

The red-haired man looked him over for a moment, then nodded. "Ok then. To a certain extent, you are correct. At this moment- all warm and cozy in bed beside your wife- you are indeed asleep. Your breathing is even and you don't even toss and turn like normal. But," he said in a different tone, apparently deciding to sit as well, "In a few hours, you will die. Your body won't feel a thing, but your heart will simply stop."

"You're joking, right?"

"Serious as an herbivore in a Mandrake grove."

"So... I'm dead?"

"Not quite yet. You are a very old man, George, surely you saw this coming?"

"Well... yes. But I still didn't think it would come so soon..."

"We still have a little time."

And so they sat together in the grass for a very long time. The sun set over Stoatshead Hill, the stars began to twinkle in the dying purple and they still sat together, talking. Arm in arm, they watched the moon rise. To George, it seemed much bigger than it had in life.

"So why do I look so young?" he asked.

"Because you have always thought of yourself as being this age."

"Ah. And why is my ear still gone?"

"Because you never really got over losing it," and when he said 'it,' they both understood that he really meant 'me.' "Well," he said, standing and brushing nonexistent grass off his trousers, I think it's about time we got up this here hill."

George stood as well and followed his brother. For some reason, though, he looked back first. The bottom of the hill was swathed in thick, pearly fog. One imagined that it was possible to walk on top. "Wait," he called softly. "This means that I am now dead?"

Without having to look, he knew that his twin nodded. "You are now dead."

"I can't say goodbye to Angela?"

"No."

"Could I... Was there ever... Was there ever a point where I could have?"

"I think you know the answer to that already."

George stared a little while longer as if trying to see through the impenetrable fog. In the end, though, he lowered his gaze to the grass and looked up again at his brother. "Yes, I suppose I do."

He smiled mournfully at George. "Are you ready?" George only swallowed and nodded.

It was a dreadfully long climb- much longer than the actual Stoatshead hill- oddly enough, though, all of the trees and shrubs seemed to be in their appropriate places. The moon had set and the sun begun to rise before the George could see the crest. Just because he could, George lengthened his stride and broke into a loping run, passing by his guide ("Hey!") and reaching the top in only moments. Stretching out of habit more than any need to unwind or cool down (the hike hadn't even left him winded) George surveyed the town laid out below.

"We're here... bloody cheater."

"Heh, you should know better. It's so pretty."

He nodded. "It is rather nice."

And it was. The town was arranged in long spirals radiating away from the base of Stoatshead hill and the lights of the town had not yet gone off from the night. It looked like a glittering circle of lace was laid under the hill. Besides which, the sun was just before cresting at dawn and the sky was rosy pink.

"Will it be this beautiful on the other side?"

"Now, now, I can't tell you that."

"Not even a little bit?"

"Nope. It's a secret."

"C'mon, I'm your twin!"

Said twin stuck out his tongue. "Tough chips. I still can't tell you."

"Bugger."

"I can tell you not to be afraid."

"Very helpful."

"Dang straight."

They were quiet for another moment. "Where do we go from here?"

"I thought that should be obvious."

"Clearly I didn't get it."

"What happened the last time we were together on this hill?"

George thought a moment. "Fifth year, wasn't it? Didn't we go to the Quidditch tournament that summer?"

"That's right."

"So... Are we looking for a Portkey?"

"Well done. Here it is." In his hand lay a brightly colored wrapper.

"You're not serious. A Ton-Tongue Toffee?"

"I was hoping you hadn't forgotten."

George took it lightly from his hand. "Does this thing run on a schedule?"

"It leaves when you are ready. You may have the honor of counting."

George could only stare at the wrapper and turn it over with his finger, just to make sure it was real. He could have sworn it was the selfsame fateful wrapper that once caused Harry's cousin so much grief. He smiled to himself and looked up at his twin. "It's been a good ride, Fred."

Fred grinned back. "You bet."

"Next stop- the afterlife! You'd better hang on."

Fred touched a finger to the wrapper.

"3... 2... 1..."