Of Dawn and Darkness
Jedi Goat
Author's Note: A bonus "epilogue" to follow In George's Eyes. There are huge spoilers for those who have not read the story – you've been warned! (It shouldn't matter if you've read the new version or the old, but it does follow the new version more cohesively, so, your call.) This is also 031 – Sunrise of my Fanfic100.
Diagon Alley sleepily unfurled itself beneath the first rays of sunlight, the light gleaming like a sheen of golden paint across the sloped, shingled rooftops and blazing like dancing flames along the winding cobblestones below. The morning air was yet still as Fred turned the latch and shifted the window open. Somewhere in the treetops hung adjacent to their upstairs flat, a songbird trilled.
Fred leaned up against the kitchen counter, blinking owlishly as he drank in the light that set his tousled red hair aflame. From his perch he could see the deserted shop-lined street stretching on to a very distant pillar of white marble: there was Gringotts at the far end of the meandering road. Somehow the sight of the grand front of the wizarding bank made his pulse quicken and Fred turned back on the small kitchen. Barren countertops bathed in the sunlight; dust motes drifted in the air; the only furnishings, a table and two chairs, lurked in the corner.
This was his home now. His, and his brother's. Suddenly, irresistibly, Fred was grinning, thinking of the quiet and dark shop downstairs whose shelves wouldn't remain empty much longer. How long they had waited for this moment, this feeling of absolute, independent freedom.
The memory of their flight from Hogwarts lingered anew in his consciousness, and it felt so unreal to be actually standing there that Fred was half convinced he had dreamed the whole thing: in a moment wouldn't he awaken in the Gryffindor seventh year dormitory, disgruntled by the chime of Lee's alarm clock?
Fred shook his head, wandering from the kitchen into the dark living room. He stopped short, surveying the chamber they had crossed last night, too exhausted to bother unpacking; the room was strewn with unmarked boxes, there one that had sprawled over on its side – ah, so that was what he had tripped over last night. Fred skirted a couch draped in dusty coverings and gingerly righted the box.
He peered inside, half concerned that he might have broken something; the resounding crash had, after all, scared them both half out of their wits. He winced; inside rattled a haphazard heap of ceramic shards. China, by the looks of it; he couldn't remember packing it. Maybe George had seen fit to nick them as findings from their dad's collection in the shed last summer?
Drawing his wand from his pocket, Fred uttered a whispered spell and the shards neatly flew back together, as seamlessly as a jigsaw puzzle, into the shapes of plates and bowls encircled with rather gaudy flowering designs. Now Fred noted there were also a few heavy pots and pans among the culinary items – as always, George had been diligent to the last detail. Grinning faintly at that, Fred hefted the box under his arm and carried it back toward the kitchen, a new idea stirring in his consciousness.
·:·
By now the darkness was second nature to him when George opened his eyes; he had rolled over and now lay splayed on his back in bed, contemplating getting up. What time was it? He purposefully slowed his breathing, listening intently to his surroundings. The usual faint snoring and shuffling of his dorm-mates was eerily absent; George twisted instinctively toward where the window in the Gryffindor dormitory should have shed a halo of light on his bed.
As he lay there, bemused, another sound broke through his dazed state: some distant clattering, as though from the adjacent room. For an instant George thought he was back at home, at the Burrow, hearing the first bustling stirrings of his mother going about her chores downstairs. And if he breathed deeply, he could even smell something of her familiar frying eggs and bacon.
George shook himself of that delusion and, summoning his strength, swung to a sitting position on the edge of his bed. Instinctively his left hand roved to his head as sparks flickered dizzyingly in front of him. He exhaled softly, cautiously, and then dropped his bare feet to the unfamiliar hardwood floor.
All his memory's maps proved useless in these alien surroundings, and George uncertainly held out his hands as he shuffled across the room, trying to draw back the memory of those confused moments last night when he and Fred had dragged themselves to bed. Where was the door? George's heart leaped as his outstretched palms hit a surface – the wall. Trailing his right fingertips along that support, he made his way along the perimeter until he found the doorway.
The banging and clattering grew louder as he shuffled down the hall, one hand pressed to the wall as much as for guidance as for balance as his dizzy spell returned in full force. George swallowed back sickly, regretting yesterday's long flight. Next time he'd remind Fred how much he bloody hated how sick flying made him.
Abruptly the hardwood ended, his feet touching cold linoleum; George stopped short, tilting his head in the direction of the noise. In the darkness of the house, he thought he could faintly perceive the glow of something like sunlight in front of him.
The banging stopped short. "'Morning, sleepyhead," said Fred's cheery voice from across the room. "Didn't mean to wake you up."
George shrugged noncommittally and instead inclined his head slightly, eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?" he asked after a moment of trying futilely to decipher the silence.
"Cooking," Fred said happily, banging the pots together once more.
"...Ah," George deemed wisely. "When, pray tell, was the last time you ... cooked?"
"I can't remember," Fred reflected. "Ah well. Just thought I'd do something nice for you."
"Don't burn down the kitchen in the process," George said dryly, feeling his way around the perimeter of the room and discovering the kitchen table. Gingerly he pulled out a chair and sat down, amusing himself with the clattering spectacle. For a few moments he leaned his head against his palm, listening with a quirked smirk as Fred duelled with the stove. This venture involved a lot of jostling of heavy cutlery and hearty swearing; nevertheless the apparent involvement, George felt no obligation to help his brother out.
At long last, tugged back to the present by the distant pulsating in his temples, George wondered if Fred had unpacked the coffee yet. He drew back his chair with the thought of searching for it (and wasn't it as good a time as any to try to acquaint himself with their new home?) and moved closer to the sound of Fred's mutterings, trailing his fingertips along the countertop to guide him.
"Hey –" Fred said crossly. "I can do this myself, you can just sit –"
George rolled his eyes. "I wasn't going to. Seen the coffee?" he continued offhandedly.
"To your right," said Fred, but as George felt along the counter he hastened, "I'll get it, hang on –"
His brother rustled past him, leaving something sizzling on the stove; George tilted his head, frowning at him as he heard cupboard doors bang and the sound of pouring liquid.
"I can do this stuff myself now, you know," he objected, trying not to feel a little annoyed at Fred's insistence to take care of him.
"Yeah, I know." Fred brushed him off and a moment later pushed a ceramic mug into his hands. "Careful, it's hot –"
"No duh," George retorted flatly. Fred stopped short, perhaps realizing how much he had been emulating their mother. In the silence, the food on the stove crackled.
"Don't let it burn, Mum," George advised wisely, leaning up against the counter as Fred – cursing under his breath – squeezed past him to salvage their breakfast. With something of an amused smirk George listened to him clattering about with the pans, cradling his coffee.
"There –" Fred huffed at last, dropping two plates down on the table. "Happy now?" When George said nothing immediately Fred returned to his side, unencumbering him of the coffee but mercifully leaving him to find his way to the table on his own. George appreciated the silent recognition of his pride for, coupling his unfamiliar surroundings with his current headache, feeling his path required both hands. When at last he had sat down Fred deposited both of their drinks and settled across from him.
"Well?" he said expectantly.
George cocked an eyebrow. "Well, what?"
Fred made an impatient noise in his throat. "How is it? My cooking, I mean."
"I think 'what is it' would be a better question," George observed, frowning as he came across his fork and poked experimentally at the stuff on his plate. His warning had come a little too late, as it smelled unfortunately burnt.
"It's an omelette, for your information," Fred said matter-of-factly, "and the least you could do is be a little bit grateful."
"For what?"
"For me being such a caring brother as to make you breakfast."
"Fred, do me a favour and don't be so caring ever again." George, sighing, deemed the course of least annoyance to be to humour his brother for now and cautiously piled a bit of the crumbling "omelette" on his fork.
"Let's try it at the same time," Fred offered. "Ready and ... go."
Obediently he tasted a bit of the homemade cooking, nearly gagging as the taste of something like charcoal filled his mouth; he fumbled for the mug and gulped down several burning mouthfuls of coffee before attempting to address his twin.
"Fred ... no offense or anything ... but tomorrow we're eating at the Leaky Cauldron."
"I'm with you on that," said Fred, his chair scraping back. "Here – I'll get rid of this." George was more than glad to surrender his plate and as Fred went to toss the excuse for food he tilted his head slightly, hearing an odd tapping sound at the window.
"Fred," he implored him, and his brother stopped banging the plates around.
"Ah, right on time," he said cheerfully. "Errol!"
Feathers fluttered and then something thumped on the table in front of George with a low hoot. He reached out a hand, scratching the exhausted owl's head as Fred pulled a letter free of its leg. He groaned faintly.
"Mum's sent us a Howler, did she?" George inquired casually. Errol had staggered back to his talons and clambered up his arm, using his beak to grasp at the fabric of his sleeve. George grinned sideways slightly as the old owl settled on his shoulder, hooting softly.
"Yeah," Fred concurred without a trace of concern. "Ah well, what can you do."
A soft crackle of parchment was the only warning before a shrill shriek split the air – George flinched and Errol shot off his shoulder with a cry of alarm. "FREDERIC GIDEON WEASLEY, GEORGE FABIAN WEASLEY," their mother's voice boomed around the small kitchen, "OF ALL THE RECKLESS, FOOLISH THINGS YOU'VE DONE, NOW I GET AN OWL SAYING YOU'VE DROPPED OUT OF SCHOOL, NOT TO MENTION TURNED HALF THE SCHOOL INTO A SWAMP AND INSULTED THE HEADMISTRESS!"
"So they haven't gotten rid of it yet?" Fred observed. "All it would take is a few good scouring charms..."
"WHAT AN EXAMPLE TO SET FOR YOUR BROTHER AND SISTER! WHERE WE WENT WRONG WITH YOU TWO, I HAVE NO IDEA! YOUR FATHER AND I ARE DISAPPOINTED IN YOU! TRADING IN YOUR EDUCATION AND YOUR NEWTS FOR A SILLY IDEA OF A JOKE SHOP ..."
"Silly," muttered Fred, highly affronted, "she's no idea –"
"AND AS FOR YOU, FREDERIC," Mrs Weasley roared at him as though aware of his scorn, "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WOULD BE SO RECKLESS AS TO DRAG YOUR BROTHER INTO THIS! YOU COULD HAVE VERY WELL GOTTEN HIM HURT AGAIN, FLYING TO LONDON LIKE THAT, NO THOUGHT FOR THE CONSEQUENCES –"
"Oi –" Fred protested, as George quietly lowered his head and poked at a knot in the wood of the table.
"– YOUR FATHER'S HAD A REAL TIME KEEPING THE MINISTRY FROM PRESSING CHARGES AT WORK, YOU'VE JUST AS WELL SIGNED YOURSELVES AS CRIMINALS FOR WHAT YOU DID –"
"I think we've heard enough, don't you?" Fred said to his brother; George didn't answer immediately and a moment later he heard a loud BANG as the Howler exploded.
In the sudden stillness his ears were ringing; somewhere overhead Errol shook himself, disgruntled, and hooted softly. Fred dragged his chair over and sat down next to his twin, breathing slightly laboured.
"You ... you don't think it was reckless, do you?" Fred said at last. Something in his soft tone was almost plaintive. George snorted.
"It was reckless, Fred. We just as well thumbed our noses at Fudge's administration..."
"Well, yeah, that's what we meant to do, but ... leaving like we did ... I'm sorry," Fred mumbled, "I suppose Mum's right, it was dangerous."
George remained silent for a moment; at long last he shook his head slowly, wearily. "I thought we went through this already," George accused his twin. "We agreed to do things like we did, and so we did. If I doubted I could fly the way here I would've said something. Seriously, stop blaming yourself for these things."
"I didn't even think of it," Fred said flatly. "Your idea with the bells either – that was brilliant, mind, and it worked – but I didn't even consider that you couldn't."
George shrugged; he didn't like arguing about this very much. "Listen," he said firmly, "I don't expect you to think of everything. In fact, I kind of expect you to forget sometimes," he smirked slightly at his oblivious brother, "which is when I'll let you know what I need help with. Other things, I prefer to do myself."
"Yeah," Fred said. "Yeah ... I guess so. But still ..." He hesitated, and George shook his head.
"Leave it. We got here, didn't we?"
Fred said nothing to that, and the moment of uncertainty passed; however, unspoken between them lingered his unfinished thought. I don't want to endanger you again...
·:·
The bells overtop the door jingled and another gaggle of curious witches and wizards ventured into the shop. Fred grinned at their expressions of utter wonder as they stared about at the shelves packed with vibrant products, the sparklers shimmering and dancing in the air, and the garish violet posters plastered along the walls. Depositing a box of Canary Creams, Fred dusted off his hands and meandered over to their newest customers.
"Welcome to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," he greeted brightly. "A veritable treasure trove for pranksters and troublemakers alike ... Take a look around; I'm sure you'll find there's something for everyone's fancy." He plucked a trick wand from the nearest bin and proffered it to a young blond witch; upon her tentative touch it burst into a vibrant bouquet of flowers, to awed murmurs from the crowd and a blush from the witch.
Fred flashed a grin as the cluster moved off, some witches and wizards now peering curiously at the assortment of binned wands; Fred was about to resume doing something productive when the telltale bell announced another customer and he turned instinctively back to the door.
"Wel –" Fred began his customary introduction, but he stopped short and his eyes widened. A familiar burly redhead now blinked around the colourful shop, hands on hips, still dressed in his travel cloak. "Charlie?"
"Hey, Fred," Charlie grinned, stepping forward and embracing his younger brother before Fred could stop him; he protested, half-heartedly, and when Charlie released him he reached out to teasingly ruffle his hair.
"Well," said Charlie, as Fred grimaced and attempted to flatten his hair back into something remotely presentable, "I was going to say I came here to check up on you, but it looks like you're doing well on your own."
"To say the least, yeah," Fred concurred. "We've been spreading word about, and business is booming – take a look around if you'd like, we'll give you a special discount for being our role model."
"Gladly," nodded Charlie, though he lingered a moment, staring at his younger brother. "Mum told me what you two did."
Fred shrugged, "We don't regret it. I suppose she didn't tell you what that toad did to us."
"She didn't mention it, no."
Fred rolled up the left sleeve of his violently magenta robes, showing Charlie the pearly-white scars on the back of his hand. "Torture, every night of the week," he said quietly. "I think we did this one for about a month, that's why it didn't fade."
Charlie blanched. "I – I didn't know that."
"That's not all. I could give you a full detailed account, but I was quite enjoying this fine morning and don't want to ruin it just yet." Fred glanced around the shop, smiling distantly. "You know ... if we hadn't left when we did, she probably would've found reason to expel us within the week, because of George. Don't tell anyone, though."
Charlie nodded, his brow furrowed; when Fred turned back to him his usual merry air was back in place. "So, Char, what'll it be? We have some pretty wicked fireworks, one's even shaped like a giant dragon – or Skiving Snackboxes, those are handy –"
"How's George?" Charlie inquired quietly. Fred stopped mid-spiel, without hesitation gesturing for him to follow.
"Why don't I just let him tell you?"
Fred turned about and waded through the crowded aisle behind them, Charlie squeezing past a group of witches giggling over love potions after him; they weaved past displays of Canary Creams and Edible Dark Marks until Fred stopped short suddenly.
"Hey, George – brought us a guest," Fred beamed at his twin, who was carefully stacking bright packages of firecrackers on the shelf from a large box at his feet. At once George turned toward them and his brow furrowed.
"Hey," said Charlie, stepping forward, and George's expression eased to amazement. He shuffled forward hesitantly and Charlie obligingly hugged him, George exhibiting none of Fred's vain struggling. Drawing back at last, Charlie held his younger brother at arms' length and studied his face very carefully. Nevertheless, he was to be reassured by the fullness of his features, as though he and Fred had been eating well outside out Hogwarts. Charlie dropped his hands.
"Fred, while I think of it," George added over his shoulder to his twin, "we're almost out of the Whizz-Bangs ... I checked the back, but I don't think we have any more ready."
Fred nodded, "I'm on it."
"You're managing well, then," Charlie observed. Fred grinned unabashedly and pointed at the box on the floor, which, upon closer inspection, was labelled not only with "Weasleys' Whizz Bangs" but its Braille correspondent as well.
"Thanks to a certain Hermione Granger," he professed. "We've gotten a few questions about it, sure, but mostly we've been able to pass it off as a cool design quirk."
Charlie raised an eyebrow, looking between the twins. "Why wouldn't you let them know -?"
It was George who answered that, smiling. "C'mon, Char, that would only confuse our customers!"
"Can you believe some people think there's only one of us working here? It's a little bit unsettling, really," Fred said.
"What? They can't tell you apart at all?" Charlie blinked.
"That, and I know the layout of this place better than Fred." George smirked.
Fred grimaced. "Oi – that was only that one time, and it was dark."
"He tripped over the Snackboxes," George explained to Charlie. "It was pretty pathetic, actually."
"Ah."
"Just wait," Fred said calmly, "one of these days I'm gonna rearrange all the sections on you, and then where will you be?"
George shrugged, "That'd take too much effort on your part, so I'm not too concerned."
Charlie laughed. That Christmas, when he had first found out his brother was blind, he couldn't have imagined to be standing here with them now, in their shop that they had essentially built from the ground up – all by themselves. George had come a long way since November – and Fred, too, he deemed, watching them banter together now.
Grinning, Charlie slung an arm around each of the twins' shoulders. "Now, then, when are you two off work? Because I for one am craving Fortescue's – my treat."
The End
Author's Note: So, there you go! Unfortunately, what with my other Fred 'n' George stories on the go, I don't have the time to write a full-on sequel, but I hope this at least lets on a little more about how they handle the shop in my AU, now that one of them is blind.
(If you managed to read all that without previously having read my story, and were not hopelessly confused ... you have my congratulations. :D)
Please review!