A/N: Hello! This is my first Potter fanfic and I don't mind telling you that I am a tad nervous about publishing it...! Hopefully you'll enjoy the concept and my woeful attempts to do JK. Rowling's fabulous world and characters some sort of justice. Feedback much appreciated! ;)

This part is just a little taster/introduction, but I hopes you like it.

Lx. (Oh and title credits go to a very old, very wonderful, very very dear friend of mine- Pixie, eeeek and snoggy snoggy mwah!)

Chapter 1- The Lost for the Found

He was an orphan. To himself he seemed like one, looked like one. He was spending a large majority of his time in front of mirrors these days, so was perfectly positioned to watch his features as they grew thinner and paler like the pinched, grubby faces of those sad, abandoned children. Then there were his eyes; bloodshot from lack of sleep but bright and round, staring transfixed upon his own reflection. Again and again he searched his own face for some trace of his twin, but found none. It was only his face now, his own freckled features; they no longer shared their face.

Most of all it was his eyes that made him an orphan. They looked so empty, so lost… so desperate. He began to wonder if he would actually resemble his twin anymore- aside from the obvious missing ear on his part, and the slowly disintegrating, rotting flesh of his twins'…

He gagged. In his haste to get to the toilet bowl, his sleeve snagged on the mirror and pulled it from its hangings, so that at the same moment that he bent and retched to the bottom of his scarcely full stomach, the mirror smashed against the bathroom tiles, sending large, deadly shards skittering across the floor.

When his family came running at the sound, it was to find George curled into a tight ball- his long, lanky body somehow managing to squeeze within the miniscule gap between the toilet and the sink- rocking gently backwards and forwards, whimpering softly to himself. He was still looking at the mirror, the fragments of his face reflected back to him somehow more poignant than he could ever put into words.

With a hasty wave of his wand, Ron fixed the mirror- the pieces flying together and sealing themselves to form one smooth surface again.

"You see, George," his sister, Ginny, knelt cautiously beside him, trying to conjure up her own encouraging smile, "The mirror's all fixed now. There's no harm done."

George looked at her for a long time, his trembling lips pressed tightly together.

"But it's 7 years, Ginny," He said eventually, raising his wide, orphaned eyes to meet her lukewarm, brown ones. "7 years where I'll have bad luck… and 7 years where Fred won't be there to help me… make me laugh… because in 7 years time… Fred will still be gone. And I'll still be here. Fred's gone… and I-I-I'm still…here…7 years, Gin…"

Still shaking, still damp from the mildewed floor, George pulled himself up and walked out of the room, leaving his younger siblings with nothing but the repaired mirror and the reflection of the back of his being.

Hundreds of miles away, in a small flat in North London, an actual orphan was also examining her reflection in her bathroom mirror. She too, had noticed the changes in her face since the battle at Hogwarts; the evidence of the small, indelible scars of both the mental and physical variety. All traces of puppy fat had gone, as had the dimple in her left cheek when she smiled, (not that there was an awful lot of cause for that kind of behavior these days anyway) and had left behind what was undeniably the sculpted face of an adult. A woman.

Shame she still had to deal with her hopeless hair, though… And if she had actually 'become a woman' now, some proper cleavage wouldn't go a miss either…

A slightly transparent, yet still undeniably red-maned head bobbed up beside her, it's expression irrefutably bored.

"Look, as much as I appreciate and soundly applaud the effort you're making for my brother, he's really not that fussy. His attractiveness test goes something along the lines of 'How many heads does she have?' and if the answer is 'only one', as in your case, then you're in for a fighting chance. I always was the one with the taste."

"I'm not making an effort for anyone, especially if that particular 'anyone' is an identical replica of you," She sighed and gave up trying to squash her stupid blonde curls into some sort of submission, "and if he's anything as much as a pain in the backside as you are, I am turning around and coming straight back here…you understand?"

"Well, I can't make any promises…"

The slightly odd pair- a gangling, ginger, indisputably solid yet still peculiarly translucent figure and the equally gangly, young blonde witch- stationed themselves by the fireplace.

"…He is grief-stricken, after all."

She grimaced. "This really isn't going to be much fun, is it?"

"Oh, sorry Miss walking-and-talking-and-breathing are we about to have a debate about whose life sucks more? Oops, wait. I don't have a life. Being dead will do that to you, though I'm not denying it sometimes has it's-"

"Shut up, Fred." Heaving another heavy sigh (which she had found herself doing increasingly since Fred had entered her company), she took up and handful of glittering powder and threw it into the empty grate. Stepping in with her ever-present floating companion by her side, she shouted loudly and clearly, "Ottery St. Catchpole!"

And in a whoosh of green flames, they were gone.