A/N: This was written for the Quidditch League, as a companion fic to "I Was With You" in honor of my first season on the forum. However, I soon realized that it was becoming much longer than intended, so I cut off most of the other version to keep it within word count limits for the competition. It seems I've been writing a lot of longer stories lately—this ended up at a grand total of 4682 words, a good 1682 words longer than the maximum word count. Anyway, for full disclaimers, credits, and competition information, go to chapter 17 of "Quidditch League Entries" on my profile. Now, enjoy the story!
(May, 1997)
Fred and George were inventing inside of their joke shop, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, working on an improvement to one of their products. The two were sitting on the floor of the shop's lab, a cauldron bubbling violently in front of them. The potion inside of it would, if brewed correctly, increase the strength of the items in their Shield Wardrobe line.
"I think we need some armadillo bile," George said, stirring the cauldron. He pulled the stirring spoon out and shook drops off of it.
"Really?" said Fred, cocking his head. But he stood and took some bile from the store cupboard anyway. George had always been better at Potions. "I would've thought to add porcupine quills."
"No," George explained, pouring in the bile and causing the potion to fizz. "The bile make the protection aspect of the potion stronger, because armadillos have that armor, right?"
"Yeah, but porcupine quills are sharp and pointy," Fred countered, turning back to the cupboard and grabbing a fistful of porcupine quills. He held them out to George. "You wouldn't exactly want to have a cuddle-fest with a porcupine."
"Fair enough," said George, taking the quills and adding a few in. The potion turned a promising shade of purple.
•••••
(June, 1997)
Fred and George were walking up to the gates of Hogwarts, about to attend the funeral of Professor Albus Dumbledore. The two of them were donning dragon-hide jackets they had bought specially for the occasion.
"I can't believe he's dead," George said quietly. It seemed almost disrespectful to break the tense silence that surrounded the school. "He always seemed so…"
"Invincible?" Fred supplied. "I know."
"He always thought our pranks were hilarious," George said, grinning slightly.
"Remember that time when we messed with his sherbet lemons, though?" Fred said, bumping George's shoulder with his. "He was furious."
"Ah, well," George said reminiscently, "he did warn us that no one messes with his candy."
They went silent as they entered the Hogwarts gates. Their mother was there to escort them to the funeral, tears streaming down her face.
"Oh, my boys," Molly said, hugging them both tightly. She stepped back, looking over them appraisingly. "Come here, come here…"
She led them to where the funeral would be taking place, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. Fred and George shared a surprised glance when they saw the reception.
The Hogwarts grounds were more filled than the two had ever seen it; even with the hundreds of chairs set out by the Black Lake, there were still hundreds more witches and wizards crowding around the edges of the service, craning their necks for even a glimpse of the late headmaster. It seemed as though half—or maybe even more—of magical Britain had turned up (not to mention the group of people from France).
Molly sniffed, pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket. She gestured at a row of seats, where the rest of their family, along with a gruesome-looking red-haired man, sat. "We'll be sitting here…"
As they neared the other Weasleys, Fred barely held in a gasp of shock. The horribly disfigured man that was sitting there was Bill, his face mangled almost beyond recognition.
"What happened?" Fred whispered to Bill, once they had all settled. Fred was sitting with George and Bill on either side of him; George had to lean around his twin to participate in the conversation. "You look terrible."
"Thanks for that," Bill said dryly. He sobered. "Greyback got me. It wasn't the full moon, so I'm not a full-fledged werewolf or anything. But the scars are still cursed. Madam Pomfrey did the best she could."
"What," said George, frowning slightly, "so it's just the wounds and nothing else?"
"No, Greyback's saliva still got into my blood, so I've got 'wolfish characteristics,' now," Bill said with a wry smile. "So far, all I've noticed is that rare steak tastes a lot better than it used to. But Fleur"—Bill looked fondly down at his wife, who was seated on his other side with her head on his shoulder—"says she's taken care of that. She's always thought that British people overcook their meat."
They went silent as a loudly sobbing Hagrid (which drew some scandalized looks) stumbled past, carrying the body of Dumbledore. In honor of his unique fashion sense, Dumbledore was wrapped in purple velvet that was covered in golden stars.
Fred and George shifted ever-so-slightly, so that their shoulders were touching.
•••••
(July, 1997)
Fred and George were sitting in a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix, where they were all trying to come up with an extraction plan to get Harry out of Privet Drive. So far, Moody—who had not offered any ideas himself—had been able to poke a plethora of holes in each plan suggested, so everyone was starting to get frustrated.
"How 'bout we have seven Potters?" Mundungus piped up from the corner, where, until now, he had been perfectly silent.
Fred and George exchanged a curious glance. When did Mundungus ever come up with ideas?
"Sorry?" said Remus, looking over at him in surprise. "There's only one Harry, remember?"
"No," Mundungus slurred, looking as though he was not entirely sober, "we make another six with Polyjuice, right? An' then we can fly 'im away…"
Everyone still seemed confused, except for Moody, who was looking thoughtful. "That could work," he said slowly.
"Really?" Arthur said, frowning slightly at Mundungus in thought. "Why would we need six of Harry?"
"They won't know which Potter to target," Moody said before Mundungus could even open his mouth. "Each one of him—accompanied by a protector, I'd say—could go to a different safe house connected to the Order in some way, and by the time the Death Eaters figure out which one's the real Potter, we'll be all at the Burrow."
"Who will we have Polyjuice into Harry?" Tonks asked. Demonstrating by making her hair turn short, black, and messy, she said, "I could do it, you know I'm a Metamorphmagus, I could just change to look like him—"
"No," Moody said immediately. "You'll be better as a protector. You fight too efficiently, for a teenager, with all of your Auror training."
He paused, then began to list off his choices in fake-Harrys. Moody rattled them off quickly, but Fred knew that he was weighing the tactical advantages for each person. "The three youngest Weasley boys, the Granger girl, Delacour, and Dung, he won't be any good as a protector."
There were immediate protests.
"Why Ron and Hermione?" Molly said worriedly. "They're barely of age, they're too young—"
"Precisely," Moody snapped. "Those closest to Potter's age will fight like Potter's age. They've received the same training as him, so they'll likely use a close enough repertoire of spells and fighting style to fool the Death Eaters."
"We're already overage!" Ron exclaimed. "I want to help! Harry's my best mate, you know!"
"Oh, but," Molly began, but Arthur squeezed her hand.
"Ron has a point," he said, settling the matter. "They have the right to choose to participate in this mission."
"Why can't George and I be a pair?" Fred said loudly. "Everyone knows that we work better when we're partners—"
"They'll be expecting Potter to be with the most experienced Order members," Moody said sharply. "Potter being with a teenager would be a dead giveaway."
"Nineteen!" George protested. "Practically twenty!"
"Your birthday is in April," Arthur said dryly. "You're closer to nineteen than twenty. But that's not the point. It's safer for you two to be paired with a more experienced Order member"
Fred stood up, eyes flashing in anger. How could anyone even think about separating them! "But—!"
"You're twins," Kingsley said in an annoyingly placating tone. "It would be painfully obvious that you weren't Harry when you two seem to be able to read each other's minds the way you're always able to."
"Besides," Remus said calmly, "if there are any Death Eaters who recognized you, they'd immediately be suspicious when only one of you was in the battle, right? I don't think I've seen the two of you apart since I met you."
Fred opened his mouth, scrambling for another argument, but he came up blank. A glance at his twin told him that he was also out of ideas.
"Fine," Fred said with a huff, dropping back down in his seat next to George. "Doesn't mean we have to like it."
•••••
(August, 1997)
Fred and George were leaning casually against the trees in the garden of the Burrow, chatting up Fleur Delacour's Veela cousins. They were at Bill and Fleur's wedding, an event greatly anticipated by both parties.
"So," Fred began, flashing a winning smile at the giggling part-Veela women, "we—"
But he never finished his sentence. A chill swept through the garden, causing everyone to go silent. Fred craned his neck to see over the crowd, and caught a glimpse of a Patronus fading.
Then chaos reigned. People were running, cursing, screaming, firing spells left and right. Fred and George pushed through the crowd, fighting to get to the rest of their family.
"Mum! Dad!" Fred yelled, as George covered them with a 'Protego.' "What's going—?"
An explosion rocked the garden, and George sank to the ground, hands covering his ear and the hole in his head. Fred dropped down next to him.
"What's wrong?" Fred asked quickly, his hands on George's shoulders. He threw up a 'Protego' around them as the battle raged on.
"My ear—it hurts—" George murmured, wincing in pain. "Feels like—gonna puke—"
"Hold on," Fred said, eyes darting frantically around the battlefield. "Deep breaths."
Fleur Delacour—Weasley, now, he reminded himself—was punching a Death Eater in the face, somehow even then managing to look beautiful in her wedding dress. If he had been in another situation, he would have laughed.
"You good?" Fred asked, as George's breathing slowed from the earlier ragged gasps.
George nodded, standing up. Fred was thankful to see that he was only a bit shaky on his feet. "Okay," he said. "Let's go help—"
"No," Fred cut him off. "We need to go back to the shop."
"What?" George said incredulously. "We can't just leave everyone here!"
"We have to," Fred said firmly, though he also felt a little bit guilty. "You might have another attack, and then you might"—his voice faltered slightly—"might get hit."
"But—"
"No."
And before George could say another word, Fred seized his hand and Side-Along Apparated them to their flat above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.
"What was that for?" George said furiously. He made to Apparate back to the wedding, but Fred grabbed his arm and pulled, causing George to stumble in his half-turn.
"The battle's probably over by now," Fred said, though he wasn't quite sure of that fact. George glared at him, though Fred was more worried about his twin's safety than the fact that George was angry with him. "We would've just been a distraction to our parents, Mum and Dad wouldn't be able to focus properly until all our siblings were out of there. And your ear might've flared up in the middle of it and you might've—y'know." Fred couldn't say it. The wound was too raw, for George had been too close, too recently. "It's better that we got out when we did."
George opened his mouth to protest, but then he sighed in defeat. "Fine. But we're joining the next battle."
"Deal," Fred said.
They shook on it.
•••••
(September, 1997)
Fred was lying in his bed in the flat, being shaken from the depths of a nightmare.
"Fred!" George said urgently. "Are you okay?"
Fred looked up, and was relieved to see his twin standing there, panicked, but wonderfully, gloriously alive.
"I—yeah," Fred said finally, forcing his breathing to slow. He scrubbed his hands over his face, wiping off the wetness trailing down it. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"What was that about?" George asked, looking concerned. "That looked like a bad one."
"It was stupid," Fred said, looking back down. "It's fine. You can go back to sleep."
"Was it about my ear?" George said knowingly. Fred cursed the fact that they knew each other so well.
The Battle of the Seven Potters had been on Fred's mind for weeks. He could barely stand to let George out of his sight anymore, for fear of the worst. Fred could tell that George was becoming exasperated by his overprotectiveness, but he couldn't help thinking.
What if he had lost George?
It wasn't like he was a stranger to death—not at all. With the early losses of his uncles Gideon and Fabian in the first war, then Uncle Bilius a few years later, he couldn't stay naïve for long. But somehow, he'd always assumed that he and George would go out the way they had arrived: together. After all, that was how it had happened with Uncle Gideon and Uncle Fabian.
But the Battle had opened his eyes to reality, and suddenly Fred was all too aware that he and George could be separated in less than a heartbeat.
"No—well, maybe," Fred conceded, when George gave him a look. "See, I told you it was stupid."
"I'm okay now," George said gently, sitting down on the edge of Fred's bed. "It's already been two months since the battle."
"I know that," Fred snapped, but he softened at the look on his twin's face. Slightly defensively, Fred added, "But it's not like you weren't the one to see your body there, all covered in blood, looking like you were—"
He cut himself off with a shudder. He doubted whether the memories would fade. The memories of feeling...despairing? Shattered? Crushed? There was simply no word strong enough to describe the feeling he'd experienced during those minutes where he'd thought George was dead.
"But still," George went on stubbornly, unaware of Fred's thoughts, "you can't keep worrying over me like this. It's getting unhealthy."
"I know I shouldn't," Fred whispered. "But I can't help it."
•••••
(October, 1997)
Fred and George had just finished reading a letter from Ginny, the first one they had gotten since she had left for Hogwarts a month ago. Fred was dashing around the shop, gathering items and stuffing them haphazardly into an enchanted bag, while George penned a reply.
Dear Fred and George,
So, as your youngest (and favorite) sister, I need to make a request. Do you think you could send us some of your products? You know, Skiving Snackboxes and Instant Darkness Powder and those types of things.
I know that it could get you in serious trouble, but things at Hogwarts are getting worse. The younger kids need an escape from the Carrows' classes (they're Death Eater professors who teach 'Muggle Studies' and 'Dark Arts'), and the DA could use any help we can get. A group of little half-blood first years were taken to the dungeons, and that's why I'm writing you now. The DA is going to break them out. And who knows what else the Death Eaters will try next! We can't just stand by and do nothing.
So we need your help. By the way, your products are banned here, so if you agree, then make sure to send them in disguise. Thanks!
Love from,
Ginny ️
"Shield Cloaks, you think?" Fred said, grabbing a few off of the rack. He waved his wand over them, Transfiguring them to look like the standard black Hogwarts uniforms. "Y'know, in case those Carrows try anything."
"Sounds good," George said, adding them to the inventory of items he was writing to Ginny. "Grab some Decoy Detonators, too, and maybe some Headless Hats. So they can stay anonymous during their jailbreak."
Fred nodded, cramming the Cloaks, Detonators, and Hats into the bag. "We should probably just put a little bit of everything. So no matter what they're doing, we can be a help in some way."
"Could we enchant the bag to be connected to one here?" George asked thoughtfully, putting down his quill. "We could put something in our bag, and then it'll appear in the one we'll give to Ginny. That way we can easily get stuff from outside Hogwarts to them, without having to sneak it through security."
"I think that's possible," Fred said, dropping the bag on the couch. "But if we're going to give it to her with this letter, we're going to have to figure it out fast. Those little half-bloods are counting on us!"
•••••
(November, 1997)
Fred and George were standing in the shop, saying their final goodbyes to their shop assistant, Verity. Verity, being a Muggleborn, was retreating to the Muggle world to escape persecution. It was either that, or be killed.
"I'm really sorry, Misters Weasley," Verity said, glancing around nervously, "but I—"
"Don't worry about it," George said, firmly but gently. "Go and hide, and if you want to come back after this is all over, there'll always be a place for you here."
"Thank you so much," Verity said fervently. She glanced down at her watch. "Now, I've really got to leave."
"Wait," Fred said quickly, grabbing a bag off of the shop counter. He strode towards her and pressed it into her hands. "There's some Darkness Powder, a Shield Cloak, a Comb-a-Chameleon, and some other stuff that might come in useful. Just in case."
Verity smiled, accepting the bag. "Thank you."
Then she pushed open the door and walked out into the night.
"I hope she'll be okay," George said, watching her go.
"Of course she will," Fred said, and whether he was trying to reassure himself or his twin, he wasn't quite sure.
•••••
(December, 1997)
Fred and George were at the Burrow, "celebrating" Christmas. They knew that their mother had been preparing for the holiday for weeks, but it didn't feel right. Bill was with Fleur at Shell Cottage, Charlie was still in Romania, Percy was probably doing paperwork at the Ministry, and Ron was off in who-knew-where with Harry and Hermione. Fred, George, and Ginny were trying to keep morale up, but the war atmosphere was getting to everyone.
"Wow, Mum, everything looks delicious," George said, sitting down at the table next to Fred. He picked up his fork and grinned. "I bet I could eat as much as R—"
He cut himself off, eyes wide, but the damage had been done. Molly sniffed and tried to Conjure a tissue, but she had accidentally picked up one of Fred and George's trick wands instead of her own. The wand turned into a rubber dragon, causing her to weep harder.
Fred, George, and Ginny exchanged alarmed glances.
What were you supposed to say?
"It'll be okay"?
They're in a war.
"We're here"?
But for how long?
"Sorry," Molly said finally, after (mostly) regaining her composure. "Sorry."
The meal was somber after that. Fred and George did their best to lighten the mood, cracking one joke after another, but there was no forgetting that there was something—six somethings—missing.
•••••
(January, 1998)
Fred and George were lying on the roof of Auntie Muriel's house, where the Weasleys were in hiding, recently having gained status as "Wanted by the Ministry." They were having a discussion about the war. Fred knew that it was their job to keep morale up, remind people that the dark hadn't won yet, that it was still okay to laugh. But it was getting harder and harder to stay optimistic.
"Do you think we can even win this?" Fred asked, looking up at the twinkling stars above them.
They were thinking the same thing: Under the same sky, were Ron, Harry, and Hermione fighting for their—and the rest of Britain's—very survival? Was Percy standing behind Thicknesse, rising through the ranks as the government crumbled around him? Was Charlie in Romania with the dragons, waiting for news and hoping against hope that his family wasn't dead? Was Bill holding Fleur close, waiting for the time when they could start a family without fearing for their child's life?
"We have to," George said firmly. "Evil can't win. Good will come out on top, in the end."
"This isn't some cliché novel," said Fred with a scoff. George had always held more belief in that kind of thing. Fred tended to be more cynical. "Our best hope is a scrawny little teenager. The only people resisting the dark are all scattered underground, unable to see the light of day without being handed straight to the Dementors. The Ministry and Hogwarts—which were supposed to be the main fighters against the dark—have both been taken over by Death Eaters. But, no, sure we'll win this thing, George."
"Fred," George said, frowning.
Fred rolled his eyes. "I want to believe, but you can't deny that the odds are stacked against us."
"We have to trust Harry," George said softly. "If we give up, the dark's already won."
"Yeah?"
Fred tipped his head back. Stars winked at him, and for a moment Fred had an absurd desire to wink back.
"Fate never lets the bad guys win," George said. He paused. "At least, I'm pretty sure it doesn't."
"Fate?" Fred repeated sceptically. "I always thought that we had a say in how our lives go. We control our actions, don't we?"
"I don't know," George said. "Apparently, the greatest minds are still working on that question."
They looked at each other, then silently turned and went back inside.
•••••
(February, 1998)
Fred and George were strolling through Hogsmeade, on their way to the Three Broomsticks to meet their friends. It may have been a war, but—though they had to take precautions—they weren't about to let it get between their relationships.
"Hey!" Angelina Johnson said, once they entered, shivering slightly from the cold. They were under disguise as identical, tall brunettes, which they'd told Angelina so she'd know who to look for. "Glad you made it!"
"Hi," George said, blushing faintly.
Fred nudged George in the side and smirked. He had been aware of George's fancy almost as long as George himself, and he almost never missed an opportunity to tease his twin.
"Shut up," George mumbled, shooting Fred a look.
Fred just smiled innocently.
They followed Angelina to a table, where Alicia Spinnet was sitting and laughing with two other people. They were unfamiliar, but when Fred shot Angelina a questioning look, she whispered out of the corner of her mouth, "Katie and Lee."
"So how have things been?" Alicia asked, as Fred and George slid into their seats and took a Butterbeer. She gave them an intense look, a signal that she wasn't just asking about how well the shop was doing.
Fred glanced furtively around the room, then cast a 'Muffliato.' "Privacy charm," he explained, at their friends' questioning looks. "From the Order."
They nodded in understanding. "I know you can't tell us much," Katie said, lowering her voice regardless, "but have you got any news?"
"Luna Lovegood's been abducted from the Hogwarts Express," George said softly. Fred felt a pang of sympathy for Ginny. "It's all been hushed up."
"That's horrible," Angelina said quietly. "Are there any leads on where she is?"
"Nothing concrete, yet," Fred said. He paused. "Hopefully they'll find her soon."
The others murmured their condolences. Then the friends glanced at each other, and with a nod, Fred canceled the privacy charm.
"Yeah, our stuff's a bit expensive, but the high prices are worth it, we hope," Fred said, as though continuing a previous conversation. He winked at Angelina and grinned. "But I'm sure George wouldn't mind giving you a discount."
"Fred!" George hissed furiously, eyes flicking to Angelina's amused expression.
"What?" Fred said, giving his twin his most charming smile and slinging a casual arm around his shoulders. "They're our friends. Friends give friends discounts, right?"
"Right," George muttered, glaring at his twin.
•••••
(March, 1998)
Fred and George were on Potterwatch, going on air with their good friend Lee Jordan to tell the world the truth about the war. With all of the Ministry-approved—read: useless, lying—channels on the Wizarding Wireless, someone needed to get the word out.
"Thank you, Rodent," Lee said, his voice having a different lilt to it than normal. It was similar to the one he'd spoken with when commentating on Quidditch matches back at school, yet there was a slightly more serious quality to it. "Now, remember: Shield Charm, Polyjuice Potion, Felix Felicis. All are your friends!"
"Precisely," Fred said. He grinned at Lee. "But I'm Rapier, remember?"
People could use all of the cheer they could get, these days, and the "I'm-not-Fred-I'm-George!" trick had yet to fail him.
"No, you're definitely Rodent," Lee said, grinning. Fred cheered inwardly; it had been too long since their friend had smiled. "Rapier's the better-looking one."
"Ouch," Fred said, feigning a hurt expression, and George laughed.
•••••
(April, 1998)
Fred and George were celebrating (though they don't know it) their final birthday together. Despite the ongoing war—and the fact that they had to make do with Auntie Muriel's mildewy old mansion—they made sure that their birthday party was as extravagant as possible, with neon Weasley's Wizard Wheezes decorations plastered all over the walls. All of their friends and most of their family were able to attend.
"Okay, boys, are you ready?" Molly said, sticking candles into the cake. She smiled warmly at them as they scrambled to the head of the table.
The crowd burst into an off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday," all of them ending at different times. Lee interrupted with a "Cha cha cha!" every line, as payback for Fred and George doing the same to him at his birthday parties (it was really a never-ending loop of payback).
Once they had finished, Fred and George didn't even have to look at each other to blow out the candles simultaneously. They beamed, looking at their mother eagerly.
Molly took the knife and cut the cake, and she placed a slice each on two plates. She handed one to each twin with a smile, though slight apprehension was showing on her face.
Fred and George took the plates and put a piece of cake on their forks, getting ready to feed it to each other. It was a tradition that had been going on as long as they could remember.
And then as they held up the forks, they took their plate and shoved the cake in the other's face. They both collapsed against the other in laughter as someone snapped a picture. This was another time-honored tradition for Weasley twin birthday parties.
"Happy birthday, Fred," George said, grinning.
"Happy birthday, George," Fred replied, beaming right back.
•••••
(June, 1998)
In the end, none of it mattered—not the Shield Cloaks, not the promises they had made to each other. None of it mattered.
Because George was now alone.
He picked up a photo from Bill and Fleur's wedding. It had been taken before the wedding had been attacked; Fred and he were dancing, and Aunt Muriel was visibly scandalized. It was a happier moment, even when the marks of war were visible. George touched the side of his head where his ear had once been.
At least he had a hole to match the one in his heart.
Tears rolled down his cheeks. He felt that he should have run out of them by now, but at the same time he knew he never would.
You were right to be scared, he thought. You knew that one of us would lose the other. Somehow, you knew, and yet, we still fought in the battle. And I lost you. I'm sorry I didn't believe you.
He carefully set the photo back down on his dresser and sat down on his bed. Trying to control his shuddering breaths, he pressed Fred's Christmas jumper to his face. The room—his life—had never felt so empty.
Why did you have to leave me? Was there something more I could have done to save you? It's all my fault.
Why can't I join you? Please…
Come back.