I owe my amazing beta williamsnickers a huge thank you; without your help, this story would have been a lot poorer (and had an awful lot of contractions...). Any remaining mistakes are my own. This was originally written for the Salt and Pepper Fest on LiveJournal. I've borrowed Death from Terry Pratchett's Discworld, although the wizarding version is quite not as nice as the original.
Chapter 1
The Rest Of Your Life
-oOo-
George never told anyone how Fred survived. Not even Fred.
He shouldn't have, everyone knew that – the blast had been sufficient to kill a Hippogriff, never mind one scrawny ginger bloke. Percy, Harry and even Hermione had been so happy that he had survived that they didn't ask any awkward questions.
It was only Ron, normally not the most observant of little brothers, who challenged him afterwards. They were sitting on the steps in front of the Great Hall at Hogwarts - Ron, George and Fred, each clutching a Butterbeer and basking in the sunshine.
Victory wasn't bad. Not bad at all.
Of course, Ron had to put his foot in it. "I saw it. You shouldn't have stood a chance."
"Well, I was lucky," Fred replied.
"No, you weren't. I saw it – you looked like you were a goner." Ron was stubborn enough for two, one had to give him that. Usually, it just meant he went even further down the garden path. Like the time he remained surgically attached to Lavender Brown when even the gargoyles could see he would have been better off with Hermione. Sometimes, though, he was right.
Like now.
"Turned out I wasn't. I would have thought that would make you happy," Fred said, knocking back another swig of Butterbeer. If they could bottle and sell the contentment on his face, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes would make them richer than the Malfoys in about half an hour.
"Just because I'm glad you didn't die doesn't mean I'm an idiot. You were mumbling something, and then - " Ron struggled to describe the moment George would give his good ear never to have to think about again. "Then it was like you came back to life. You were white as a sheet and then you looked normal again."
"And hexed Yaxley in the back," Fred reminded him, which was fair enough. If you were about to get an Order of Merlin for knocking a Death Eater out with a Bat-Bogey Hex, you would have wanted everyone to know about it.
"Yeah, yeah. Everyone knows it was you who brought Yaxley down. What happened before that, Fred?"
"I've no idea, I was knocked out." Fred eventually managed to persuade Ron to let it go – you could hardly blame someone for being unconscious, after all – and it appeared that George's secret was safe.
For a while.
Unfortunately, for once Ron was right. Something fishy had happened in that seventh floor corridor, and eventually there would be a price to pay.
Eventually wasn't now, however, and George wasn't the type of person who dwelled on that which couldn't be helped. He'd figure something out. Actually, he had probably imagined the whole thing – things like that didn't really happen, did they?
As weeks and months passed after the battle, the easier it got to persuade himself it had all been in his head. Not real. Strange things happened during a war. Hallucinating was hardly even noteworthy, considering everything else that had been going on.
George didn't have a lot of time to wonder if temporary insanity was the best explanation. He had a whole shop to restock, now that Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder wasn't a bestseller anymore. Fortunately, they had been tipped off before the last Ministry raid and been able to scarper with most of their supplies, but the Order had used up most of it.
The weekend after they reopened Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, George and Fred slept for a solid fourteen hours. Then, they had time to find out what was going on beyond Number 93 Diagon Alley.
The wizarding world had exploded since the end of the war. Little kids seemed to have grown up overnight – George kept running into fellow Gryffindors he barely recognised. Most of them tried, and failed, not to stare at his bad ear. Diagon Alley had been pretty grim before they had cut it and run – now, a new club seemed to be opening every week, and witches barely out of Hogwarts stayed up dancing all night.
George and Fred didn't let petty things like house affiliations stand in their way to celebrate the end of the war. As Bill nobly had gone before and showed his younger brothers, not being blessed in the looks department didn't necessarily put a damper on your prospects with the ladies.
Fred drew the line at Pansy Parkinson, but George didn't let the fact that she had been prepared to sell Harry out put him off.
Most of the time, he had himself convinced that he had nothing to worry about. He drew the line at having children, though – somehow, he couldn't convince himself it would be all right in the end, not when there was a child in the mix.
Unfortunately for George, most witches seemed to want a baby eventually. Or two (most of them didn't believe his mother when she told them seven was as easy as two, really). It wasn't until he started seeing Morag MacDougal that he managed to get past the inevitable "Have a sprog"-conversation with the relationship still on.
It wasn't like it was between Fred and Angelina, of course – Morag was her own woman and very much into making sure they were independent people. George didn't complain. It was a good life they had, and the years slipped past so quickly he barely noticed.
Fred and George were still as handsome as ever, but Dad's hair thinned out around the temples and he stooped a little more for every year. Mum wasn't quite as spruce as she once was, either.
His nieces and nephews seemed to go from being wrinkly babies one moment to strapping young lasses and lads in Hogwarts uniforms. They didn't even have the courtesy to stop then – all of a sudden, they had settled down and had children themselves.
At Fred and George's sixtieth birthday party, the little blighters were everywhere – you could barely get to the loo without tripping over a redhead, size extra small. A ball came out of nowhere, and George kicked it at Percy's shins by pure reflex. Not bad for an old bloke – it wasn't that long ago he'd still been able to play Quidditch.
"Ball! Ball!" a small child wailed, dangerously close to a tantrum if the red face was anything to go by.
"Ask your uncle Perce, why don't you?" George suggested and escaped the other way before things got ugly.
Percy had got even poncier with age; he had even taken to referring to Victoire, Molly, Rose, James and the rest of them as 'the younger generation'. At the moment, they were busy loading the buffet so full with serving dishes that the table was creaking and getting the decorations up. They seemed to think it was their job now. Other than Mum hovering over the food, muttering about there hardly being enough to feed the kids, never mind everyone else, everyone else was happy leaving them to it.
Hermione did look like she was going to say something when Louis strung up the banner saying 'Happy 60th birthday' slightly askew, but Harry distracted her with a question about the latest Centaur legislation. He was tossing a Snitch with one hand, lazily leaning away from Ron whenever he tried to snatch it. They had been playing the same game for almost fifty years, and as far as George knew Ron still hadn't been able to get the Snitch off Harry. Except the time he and Fred had charmed it to bounce away further the more Ron and Harry reached for it. That had been fun. One didn't think Harry could curse like that –
A heavy slap landed on George's back. "The birthday boy himself! Well, one of them." It was Bill. Age had treated him kindly: his scars went nicely with the wrinkles sprinkled around his eyes. "Don't worry, George – one day you'll be as old and wise as me. Except I'll be even wiser by then, of course."
George didn't answer. Whatever it was Bill saw in his face, it made him grab George's elbow, steer him around the corner to a quiet alcove and conjure a glass of something that made Bill's eyes water before pushing it into George's hand.
While George spluttered (it was even stronger than he'd expected), Bill assessed the situation. "You look like you've seen a ghost. What's wrong?"
How did you tell your brother that you didn't expect to survive your sixtieth birthday, never mind the distinct prospect that you would be taking your twin with you?
As usual, this story is complete and I will be posting a chapter every week.
