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Of Two Minds

Fred sat astride his new broomstick, clutching desperately at his father's coattails as the pair raced through the night sky as fast they could. The warm summer breeze pulled at the hem of his well-worn sweater and blew his inky hair back from his brow. No, not my hair, he corrected himself silently. Harry's hair. Despite the considerable danger they were in, a part of him reveled in the speed at which they were travelling; before Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had taken off, he and George had never been able to afford broomsticks this fast. The feeling of riding it like this, pushing it to its limit, was exhilarating. His heart felt as if it was beating through his chest, adrenaline was rushing through his veins… but that might not have been entirely due to the flying.

A jet of red light shot over his right shoulder, narrowly missing his father's head. "Da- er, um – Arthur!" he shouted over the roaring wind, trying to keep up the charade in case the Death Eaters trailing them could hear. "Any chance we could go a bit faster?"

Mr. Weasley, it appeared, was also rubbish when it came to acting the parts they were meant to play. "What would you suggest I do, Harry?" he cried back, emphasizing the name in a way that was completely unnatural.

Fred glanced back behind them. Two shadowy figures pursued them on brooms, black cloaks billowing behind them, making their outlines nearly indistinguishable from the dark sky. The white of their sneering masks stood out prominently in the starlight. Despite his understandable concern for his and his dad's safety, he knew their situation could have been far worse. They were lucky they were only facing two opponents, rather than ten. Of course, this strategic decision on the part of You-Know-Who's forces made a certain kind of sense. His father wasn't considered to be strong or capable enough to be protecting the real Harry Potter, after all. He cast a Shield Charm that blocked the jet of purple flame that had been edging toward their broom. Though Fred had never been quite ashamed of his family, this was certainly the first time he was grateful for his father's reputation as a bumbling idiot. Of course, that meant that the "Harry"s traveling with the more experienced members of the Order would be facing greater danger. He swallowed, trying not to think of his twin, flying with the very experienced Remus Lupin.

A white-blue bolt of lightning singed the hair on the top of his head, bringing his thoughts back to more pressing matters. George would be fine; he always was.

"Try zig-zagging!" he yelled. "Aren't you supposed to zig-zag when you're under fire?"

"That's for arrows!" his dad replied, exasperation coloring his tone.

Fred only just managed to get a shield up before a curse collided with them. "What's the difference, really?!"

Mr. Weasley didn't seem to think this dignified a response.

Fred turned around on the broom carefully to face their attackers head on, dodging and blocking a volley of curses while he did so. The spells he sent at them in retaliation all missed their marks. His hands were trembling and sweating, from both the wind and the threat of the danger they faced. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he called back to the secret Defense lessons Harry had held in the Room of Requirement. Focus, Weasley. You can do this. You need to do this. If you don't, you'll end up a cold, good-looking corpse, and then who will be around to tell George he's the less talented twin? Who will torment Ickle Ronniekins?

He shot off several Stunners, the bright red light of the spell momentarily dazzling his eyes. One of them found its mark, and the Death Eater on the right plummeted toward the ground. Brilliant. I don't mean to toot my own horn, but – oh, who am I kidding, yes I do. I wish George was here to see this.

Their remaining tail swerved –

A burning, excruciating pain flared in his head. For a moment, he couldn't talk, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Spots danced in front of his vision, momentarily blinding him, and he felt faint, as if he was about to pass out. It was all he could do to keep himself on the broomstick; his arms clutched at his father's robes weakly, trying desperately to alert him that something was the matter. The left side of his head was in agony, as if someone had cut into a part of his face. Was he bleeding? He must have been. I must have been hit, I didn't see a spell, but…oh Merlin, am I going to bleed out?

His hands were shaking violently. Tentatively, he raised one to his left ear, where the pain seemed to be radiating from, ready to pull back the moment his touch became unbearable. He barely grazed the lobe of his ear – he was surprised to even feel it was still there – expecting to feel a slick stream of blood gushing from beneath his fingertips, but found none.

Fred groped wildly at his ear now, only to find it completely intact. There was nothing. No blood. Even now, the pain seemed to be fading from his head like a bad dream does upon waking, leaving only a dull ache behind. His skin felt cold and clammy, but there was no gaping wound. Where had that pain come from? He'd thought for certain…

It felt so real. It was there!

Reality came crashing down in the space of a two heartbeats.

George.

Suddenly, Fred became far more worried by the pain's disappearance than its sudden arrival. He felt faint and dizzy. He was going to be sick.

A red jet of light missed them by inches. Fred retaliated without thinking, the magic lashing out from his wand in an uncontrolled burst, stronger than ever before. How dare anyone try to stop him now, when his brother, his twin brother, could be dying, while he was here, powerless to help him?

The Death Eater's coal-black robes caught flame. He hovered in the sky for a moment longer, burning bright as a small star, before sinking back toward the Earth.

Mr. Weasley let out a loud, joyous cry, and laughed madly. "You did it! Bloody hell, for a minute there I thought we were in trouble, but you did it, my boy!"

Fred turned to face forward on the broom again, wrapping his arms tightly around his dad, seeking comfort as well as trying to ensure he didn't pass out and fall to his death. "Dad, please, go faster," he moaned.

Somehow, his father heard him over the wind. "This is as fast as it goes! We're nearly at the Longbottoms', I think we'll be right fine in just a few minutes! Might have missed the Portkey when we went on that detour, though, it's likely we'll have to Apparate home."

"George is hurt. I felt it."

Mr. Weasley's laughter died immediately. "This is as fast as it goes, Fred," he repeated, some strong emotion present in his voice his son couldn't quite identify. "We'll be there soon."

The next few minutes were spent in silent agony, as each worried that the worst-case scenario had come to pass. Fred wouldn't even allow the thought to form proper words in his mind. I would know, he said. I would feel it.

You did feel it, another, smaller voice piped up.

That's different. It's different. If he were- he cut the thought off abruptly.

Gone, the small voice replied. Say it. If he were dead…

SHUT UP! He felt a bit of bitter humor at this. Great, I'm arguing with myself. They'll lock me in the madhouse, with no one to visit me but Mum, who will yell at me to clean my cell, and…and… But he couldn't bring himself to think his twin's name.

The voice grew mercifully quiet as they passed through the protective barrier surrounding Augusta Longbottom's home. She met them at the front door, wearing one of her customary large, floppy hats. This one had a rather large falcon perched on its brim, surrounded by what appeared to be an entire bowl of waxed fruit. "You just missed it!" she cried to them as they sprinted to the front door. "You look too pale. Neville!" she called into the house. "Neville, put up the kettle!" She ushered them inside. "Come in, sit down, and we'll see about setting up another Portkey…" she started, gesturing to two very overstuffed paisley armchairs waiting in front of the fireplace.

The Weasleys remained standing. "That will take too long," said Fred. "We'll need to Apparate. Now."

"Poppycock," started Mrs. Longbottom. "Come now, you've had quite an ordeal, you should relax-"

"Gran," interrupted Neville, looking closely at their faces. "Let them go. Can't you see something's happened?"

"George," Fred said in a quiet, agonized tone. Saying the name broke something inside him, and all at once the emotions and fears he'd been trying to push to the side threatened to overwhelm him completely. All he could think of was George, bloody, possibly dying…

The old witch changed gears, and began briskly ushering the pair of Weasleys out into the garden. "You'll need to Apparate outside the protection spells around the Burrow – they're designed so no one can get in, aside from the Portkeys we set up. It'll put you about a hundred yards from the house. I do hope everything is alright – tell Molly to send a message, when she has the time."

With a nod and a "thank you" from Arthur, the pair was off.

As soon as they'd arrived outside the border, putting them at the fringes of the apple orchard, they sprinted in the direction of the house. Mr. Weasley was surprisingly quick for a man his age, keeping up with Fred with only minor difficulty, though the younger man hardly noticed. One plea kept echoing through his mind, a short prayer with no intended recipient; neither Fred nor his brother put much store in Muggle beliefs of the divine. Please let him be alive. Please let him be alive. Please let him be alive. The chant continued as the house came into sight. Fred put on another burst of speed, using a store of energy he hadn't known he possessed. He pulled a bit ahead of his father, but was stopped at the garden gate by none other than Lupin. His haggard face was pale in the moonlight, though an expression of relief had appeared on it once he spotted the father and son.

"How is he?" Fred panted. "What happened?"

The former Defense teacher pointed his wand at the twin, suspicion dawning on his features. "How do you know George was injured?"

"Because I felt it!" he shouted, his patience wearing thin. He shoved the older wizard, who dared not harm him in case he was the real Fred, and continued through the gate hastily.

He was stopped again at the back door, this time by Kingsley. Lupin and Arthur caught up to them quickly. "Let me through, Kingsley." He was frantic. "Please."

Kingsley brandished his wand, and this time Fred dared not push past. Kingsley would not hesitate to take him down if he did.

Mr. Weasley seemed to have no such qualms for his own safety. He did not even slow down as Kingsley questioned him when he approached. "How did Arthur Weasley and I first meet?"

The red-headed man barreled straight into his friend and pushed him into the house, forcing him to collide with the kitchen table stacked high with copper pots and pans, which clattered to the floor with a small, noisy avalanche. "I'll prove who I am, Kingsley, after I've seen my son, now back off if you know what's good for you!" he roared.

Fred followed quickly in his footsteps, rounding the corner into the sitting room, where most of his family was gathered. He looked around desperately for his twin, before his eyes came to rest on the sofa. His heart seemed to stop as he saw the gaping wound in his twin's head where his left ear had once been. His face was startlingly pale and bloodless against his fiery hair, eyes closed and body terrifyingly still.

"Arthur!" sobbed his mother. "Oh thank goodness!"

"How is he?" his father asked, crossing the room and dropping to his knees beside George.

Fred was speechless. His heart seemed to have stopped. He walked slowly toward the couch, and rested his shaking hands on its upholstered back. He'd known George was seriously injured, possibly dead, even, and yet it was somehow worse, seeing the damage with his own eyes.

A thought rose to the surface of his mind, unbidden: Well, I guess we won't be able to trade places anymore. Somehow, the stupid pang of regret that accompanied this realization made him want to cry. This wasn't a small cut or bruise, something that could be repaired easily with healing spells or potions. This was permanent and scary, a difference that would forever separate Fred from his twin, creating a gulf between them that could never be crossed. His twin would be forever scarred by what had happened tonight, by the danger they had put themselves in to keep Harry safe.

George began to stir, interrupting his tumultuous train of thought. A sense of relief rose within Fred, and his heart resumed its previous quick pace.

"How do you feel, Georgie?" His mother's whisper echoed through the crowded, silent room.

His fingers groped for the side of his head, encountering empty space where there should have been flesh and cartilage. "Saintlike," he murmered, and Fred's relief quickly melted away. More terrifying than the idea of being physically marked as different from his twin was the fear of being mentally separated as well. Since childhood, Fred and George had shared everything, finishing each other's thoughts and sentences with ease; after all, it was easy to understand what direction someone's mind would go in when it was the same as your own. The idea of losing his partner in scheming and debauchery while being faced with a living reminder of what he had lost each day… the thought was unbearable.

"What's wrong with him?" he croaked, forcing out the words through the bile rising in his throat. "Is his mind affected?"

"Saintlike," repeated George, opening his eyes and looking up at his brother with his warm brown eyes. The look in them was unmistakable. It's George, he thought. It's him. He's okay. And nothing else matters. "You see... I'm holy. Holey, Fred, geddit?"

Their mother's sobs grew more intense.

"Pathetic," he told George. "Pathetic! With the whole wide world of ear-related humor before you, you go for holey?"

"Ah well," said George, grinning at his tear-soaked mother. Just as he had always done, George read his twin's mind and turned the fears it held into something humorous. "You'll be able to tell us apart now, anyway, Mum."

Fred nearly cried with relief. Though the battles to come would surely be just as dangerous, leaving both their futures hanging in an uncertain balance, he was glad that, tonight at least, he would not have to experience the unthinkable pain of losing his twin.

At least he knew they would go through it all together, until the very end.

Hey all! I hope you enjoyed my take on what happened with the twins! I came up with the idea when I was re-reading Deathly Hallows; I realized it seemed a bit odd that Mr. Weasley seemed to know right away that George was injured as he bursts into the house, and, well, the rest really wrote itself. I briefly considered writing a similar story about Fred's death (*sobs*), but thought it best to end on a slightly more happy note that still pulls on your heartstrings. If you'd be interested in that, though, post the request in the reviews or send me a PM, and I'll reconsider!

SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT: If this is your first time encountering my work and you like my style, check out my long-running Next Gen fic Thorns Have Roses, and its spinoff The Thorn in My Side. Hope to see you around my page!