Chapter 1-Restoration
It was nearing two in the morning, and although 93 Diagon Alley had been closed to the public for close to five hours, the inside of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was just as lively as ever.
Large crates with little eyes peeking through, small boxes emitting smoke and loud popping noises, jars containing rather vile looking slime, and various other shop products were gracefully whizzing through the air in an orderly fashion. They were organizing themselves on shelves and self-packing into storage cabinets neatly. The ground below was a bit of a mess, with products and their wrappings strewn about, and the air smelled faintly of smoke from a few accidental explosions.
The red haired twin shopkeepers appeared a bit lost amongst the mess. Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was their pride and joy but it was also a huge responsibility—and for Fred and George Weasley, "responsibility" was a four letter word. They did what they had to do to keep their joke shop up and running nicely, but usually waited until the very last possible minute to handle the not-so-fun stuff—in this instance, taking inventory, re-stocking, and tucking things away in storage. Magic, of course, made the job a little easier, but even the cleverest of charms couldn't save the twins from being responsible business owners and getting their hands a little dirty.
They had made the mistake once before of trying to enchant the shop to clean and organize itself without their supervision, and upon arriving at their business in the morning, the Weasley twins discovered nothing less than a disaster. As it turned out, the products trying to organize themselves had gotten into a squabble of sorts (it seemed as though the Skiving Snackboxes and the Portable Swamps tussled around over which product got to place itself in the display window) and their joke shop had to be closed down for several days while the twins had a professional magical cleanup crew come in.
"Interesting," Fred Weasley had said, arms crossed as he tilted his head backwards to observe the ceiling, which had grown swamp moss threaded with snotty nosebleed discharge.
"Very interesting," replied George, who was cautiously but curiously studying a giant pus-filled boil growing off one of the walls.
Most business owners would have viewed this event as a minor cataclysm. But Fred and George Weasley, never to be discouraged by what they so delicately referred to as a "product hiccup", ordered the cleanup crew to dispose of everything besides the big bouncing wall boil. They ended up roping off that corner of the store and let patrons take photographs with it, which had affectionately come to be known as "Barry the Boil".
This night, the twins had set out to avoid another disaster, deciding not to push their luck by realizing the low probability of another fruitful result like Barry coming out of another Wheezes' shop product battle.
But not without a fight.
"Oh, come on Georgie, it could be fun! We could leave out the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder next to the fireworks, that might be interesting."
"Oh yes, just brilliant," George had replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "And when the Ministry comes after us demanding to know why great big 'W' shaped fireworks are setting off blankets of permanent darkness all over London, I'm sure everyone will be very entertained."
Fred had thrown his head back in laughter and begrudgingly locked the front doors of the shop, flipped the sign to read 'Closed', undid his first few shirt buttons and rolled up his sleeves.
Now, nearly five hours later, their job wasn't quite done but the twins were ready to tap out.
George sat on top of a bright purple crate that was intermittently violently rattling, his head tilted backwards to rest against the wall. His large, calloused hands were covered in a mysterious sparkling ash-like grime, that had become smeared all over his face when he attempted to wipe the sweat from his brow. He sat in a bit of a daze; the background whirring, whistling, and puffing noises of his shop had become a soothing lullaby. He could feel himself dozing off when the great rattling coming from within the crate he was perched upon started up again. He cried out in half-asleep surprise as the entire crate-with him still sitting upon it-was lifted off the ground for a brief moment as it shook violently, then stopped as suddenly as it had started, and thudded to the ground. George sprang to his feet and stared at the crate with a mixture of disgust and confusion on his face.
"Bloody HELL, what in Merlin's name do we have in that crate, Fred?"
In the silence that followed, George looked up and scanned their mess of a shop, looking for his brother. He spotted a head bright with red hair between a couple bookshelves towards the back of the store, and quietly approached it.
"Fred?"
When he came upon the sight of his brother, he couldn't help but grin to himself. Fred was…well, one could technically call it 'standing' but it was more of a pathetic lean. His current stature reminded George of a drooping plant, a failing flower in a garden. His feet were still planted on the ground but his entire torso and head were leaning on the wooden bookshelf; his upper lip caught on the corner and a delicate dribble of saliva escaping his mouth.
George smirked at the thoughts of all he could do right now to frighten the daylights out of his twin—a teeny, tiny firework dropped down his pants perhaps, an Acid Pop stuck into his gaping mouth, or maybe one of their newest products, a Disappearing Giant Earthworm (Fred's invention actually-regular old earthworms wriggling in a jar of dirt that explode into the size of Anacondas when dropped on a surface and leave a stinking trail of slime behind them. Enough for a disgusting shock factor but shrink back to regular size after ten minutes or so) wrapped around his ankles. The possibilities were endless but George fought the ever-tempting urge to cause mischief and sighed. His brother had worked hard all day and he deserved a break…they both did. The shop was a mess and the thought of scrambling to clean it all in the morning before customers started arriving put a pit of dread in his stomach. For now, George reminded himself to be grateful for what he had. The shop was still open, still wildly successful, and Fred was still alive.
For now, all was right in the world.
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Four years ago
St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries
"I'm afraid your brother probably won't survive the night, Mr. Weasley."
The Healer's voice sounded a bit distant, echoing, as though he were yelling to him down at the end of a long tunnel. Everything in George's vision swam before him, appearing to melt together.
"Mr. Weasley?"
The floor under him lurched, for a second it reminded George of the sensation of being yanked away by a Portkey. A high pitched ringing began sounding in his ears, and it was deafening. He clapped his hands over the sides of his head, his right hand vaguely aware he no longer possessed an ear on that side to hold on to, and slowly sank down to his knees, tucking his head down and resting his forehead against the cool tile floor.
The Healer crouched before him, craning his neck in an attempt to get a good look at Georges face.
"We may have to get a bed for this one too," George heard him calling down the hall.
At that moment, the world came snapping back into place. He couldn't be taken away, poked and prodded and prescribed potions. Not now. Fred needed him. George shakily sat up, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and squinting his eyes closed hard before slowly opening them.
"I'm fine. I'm fine. What about Fred?"
The Healer's eyebrows were furrowed together, creating deep lines of worry across his forehead. George could tell he was apprehensive about speaking again, not wanting to send him into another fainting spell.
"I'm FINE, you stupid git, now answer me about my brother!"
The Healer remained calm and composed amongst George's outburst, sighed, and extended his hand to George, who after a moment's pause, sheepishly took it and stood slowly.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"It's quite alright, Mr. Weasley. Here, at least drink some of this," the Healer said soothingly, and reached behind him to a cart. He turned back around and handed George a glass of ice cold pumpkin juice, which he took and threw back immediately, draining instantly. He leaned against the doorway, panting a little, and held the cold glass to his forehead.
"You were tortured with the Cruciatus Curse tonight, weren't you?"
George didn't answer him, just stared over the Healer's shoulder into Fred's room. He could see his twin lying on the bed, his chest rising and falling, his head lolled to the side, and the room was dark but danced with different flickering colors—charms covered almost every inch of Fred's body. A pink bubble-like one covering his nose and mouth, helping him breathe. A black cloud wrapped around his eyes, shielding them from any light and helping his shattered eye sockets repair. His entire torso encased in a golden, translucent box—George wasn't quite sure what exactly that one was for, but considering Fred had been buried under a cascade of rubble, internal damage was inevitable. And some regular, un-enchanted bandages wrapped around various parts of his body, already stained with blood and begging for a Healer's attention to be changed. Keeping his sight on his brother, he answered the Healer in a hushed voice.
"Tell me more about Fred."
The Healer sighed again, looking over his shoulder at Fred, and back again at George. "Your brother was absolutely crushed, Mr. Weasley. The amount of wreckage piled upon him was devastating for all of his internal organs. We of course are trying our best, but we've never seen one this bad pull through…there's only so much magic we can work on a body so broken."
George nodded curtly. "Can I change his bandages?"
The Healer's face was soft, gentle and understanding, but still apprehensive. "Are you sure you don't want me to take a look at you?"
George just shook his head and wordlessly strode past him into his brother's room. He headed over to the room's supply cabinet and retrieved a roll of bandage, quietly closing the pantry door and padding over to his twin's bedside.
George had seen Fred roughed up before. Years of being Beaters on Gryffindor's Quidditch team had taught the twins to expect generous amounts of bumps and bruises. Time and time again, experiments shut away in Fred and George's bedroom had gone awry and sent one or both of them flying across the room and colliding with a wall or something equally solid and painful. George had also witnessed Fred become involved with a few scuffles against other wizards, usually over something pathetic—Fred had always been known as light hearted and humorous, but occasionally suffered from a nasty temper. It had been that temper, combined with an unwillingness to learn when to just stop, when enough was enough, that had landed him in fisticuffs a few times over the years.
A black eye here, a shallow gash on the forehead there, a tender bruise managing to land mostly everywhere over the years. But nothing like this. No injury or affliction had ever covered his brother so thoroughly before to the point where his whole body looked…his mind flashed back to the Healer's word: "broken". As though any second, he could crumble upon himself. Even Fred's skin had taken on a grayish, ghostly sort of color, flowered with purple bruising.
Tears bit at George's eyes but he determinedly stuck his chin up and sucked a deep breath in through his nose, blinking hard, willing the moisture in his eyes to drain back. He wasn't sure where he could possibly be summoning his strength from right now, he had half a mind to just collapse on the floor and give up for a while—but he knew he had to be strong now, for Fred.
"I'm here, Freddie. I'm here," he whispered. He scanned his brother's body again and sighed. "You've really made a mess of things here, haven't you, you clumsy prat? Letting an entire wall fall on you. You would."
He sadly smiled to himself and started working on Fred's left foot, suspended by a loop of fabric holding his crushed leg in the air. His leg was encased in a golden charm similar to the one surrounding his chest, but his foot remained exposed. George gently unraveled the bandage which made a disgusting sticking sound as it was peeled off and grimaced at the gash running down the entire side of his twin's foot.
"Oi Fred, that's disgusting. Your feet were already troll-like. I didn't think it was possible for them to look any uglier..."
Fred laid motionless, his eyes still shrouded and his mouth gaping open and slightly obscured by the pink bubble charm, but George held on to hope his twin was still in there somewhere, listening to every syllable of banter George could muster the strength to give to him right now. He imagined Fred was listening, smiling on the inside, every joke and witty remark George made making him stronger and motivating him to heal faster so he could sit up and smack him upside the head.
As he gingerly began re-wrapping Fred's foot with the fresh bandage, he felt eyes on him, and looked up to see his mother standing in the dark doorway, watching. At first he didn't know what to say, and then just settled for, "Hi Mum. Thought Dad was taking you out for a walk through the garden?"
Upon arriving at St. Mungo's in utter chaos and panic and her son being briskly taken away by a team of Healer's with horrified looks upon their faces, Molly Weasley had experienced a nervous breakdown of sorts. Slowly collapsing to the ground, her husband's arms wrapped around her tightly, she had just kept sobbing and repeating, "Please save him. Please. Please save him."
Now, Molly stood in the doorway, watching George tend to his twin in a way she hadn't ever seen him be before, with anyone. The way he had gently stripped off Fred's foot bandage, held a fresh one in place with his thumb, and slowly re-wrapped it while talking to Fred softly as though they were in conversation, was…tender. Loving.
As the twins' mother, she knew them in a way that no one else could, and had observed them all their lives. Most people saw Fred and George as more or less exact clones of one another, the same in every way. This was almost true, but Molly had always picked up on the slight deviations between the two—the most obvious being that, while the twins were both extremely sarcastic, extremely mischievous, and seemed almost incapable of taking anything seriously, Fred had always been the slightly darker of the two. "Crueler," she had once overheard Ron saying to Harry while he told a tale of some of Fred's pranks. Upon hearing that, her heart sank at the thought that anyone could describe one of her children as "cruel", but admittedly realized the truth behind it—while the twins were both equally guilty in being troublemakers and utter terrors sometimes, Fred was more of the ringleader, the instigator, and always managed to take it a little farther than George.
But even so, even knowing George to be slightly gentler and kinder than his twin, she had still never seen him like this. The twins had always been extraordinarily close, but now, upon watching George nurse Fred's wounds, she realized just how much they completed one another. As though they shared not only a never-ending list of inside jokes, secret schemes, and plans for pranks, they also shared the same soul.
She walked over to Fred's bedside closest to the door, standing across from George. Her very swollen eyes welled up with tears again.
"Mum, you don't have to be here right now if you're going to collapse in a blubbering mess again. I'm taking care of him."
Molly Weasley managed a sad smile through her fresh tears. She placed her left hand gingerly on Fred's, resting on the mattress, and reached across to place her right one upon George's cheek.
"You're a good boy," she whispered.
George reached up to hold his mother's hand upon his face, and with his other, took Fred's closest to his. The two of them, each holding one of Fred's hands, stood quietly then.
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The potential for a rather epic prank was wide open right now, but instead, George settled for collecting a heavy pile of books, standing directly behind his twin, and suddenly dropping them on to the wooden floor.
The loud thud of the pile landing send vibrations up Georges feet, and Fred awoke from his slumber with a start.
"Argh!" he yelled, jumping, and straightened up. He had that bewildered look upon his face that you get after waking up from a deep slumber and not quite knowing what time it was, where you were, or how you got there. George leaned on to the staircase banister with his elbows, his head bowed as his whole body shook with laughter.
Fred took a moment to compose himself, running his hands through his messy red hair, and rubbing his face vigorously. He abruptly paused when he realized he was accidentally smearing his drool all over his face, and slowly drew his hands away, a string of saliva connecting and hanging delicately in the air.
"Oh Fred, you are the picture of class," George sighed.
Fred disgustedly wiped his hands on the sides of his pants, and rubbed his face with the bottom of his shirt.
"And you're the picture of boredom. Dropping books, really? I expect more out of you," he replied with feigned disappointment. "A firework down the pants, at least."
George grinned widely and clapped his brother on the back. "I considered it, mate."
The two of them stood in silence for a moment and both sighed as they observed the mess before them.
"Screw this, let's just head to bed and regret it in the morning," Fred muttered.
George nodded approvingly. "My thoughts exactly."
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Present Time
Somewhere on the cliffs of Wales
She thought about all of the children sleeping soundly in their beds.
She thought about the last time she had slept in a real bed. It had been ages.
She thought about all of those children being tucked in lovingly by their mothers and fathers.
How she longed to see her family again. Just one last time.
I'm sorry, she wanted to say.
I was a fool.
Please, take me home and tuck me in bed, safe and sound.
'Safe.'
What did that word even mean anymore?
Mom. Dad.
What had they done tonight?
Had they sat down to a meal? Had they laughed? Had they smiled?
Had they thought of her?
The rain came down in thick, ice cold sheets. The waves crashed against the shore, and she shivered.
It was so cold.
Her back was turned, it was met with a strong kick and she fell into the mud.
Her face dripped with the slimy mixture of grass, muck, and blood.
Mom. Dad.
She begged for her life.
A fistful of her hair pulled her to her feet.
She staggered.
Warm. Warm, in bed. Safe. Safe and sound.
She was picked up and flung through the air.
In the second that she stayed in flight, all she wished for was a safe place to land.