Disclaimer: Still not paid, still don't sue, k?

CHAPTER TWO

UNDONE

George was in a dining room with yellowing curtains, low ceilings and mountains of clutter. Everything from unwashed dishes, piles of papers, and stacks of empty cigarette packs littered every dull surface in the room, haloed by smelly wisps of stale smoke.

George became aware others in the room; a large old man with age spots whose sad, crow-footed eyes were studying him.  

"My, Molly must be having quite a time feeding all of ya," he said, hauling George from the floor. "Scrawny thing, you are."

"Not true!" George protested, flexing his arms, "Fred and I made beaters on our school Quidditch team last year."

"Quidditch," the man spat. "No talk of that in my house."

"Never took a fancy to it?"

The man stared at him as if he hadn't spoken at all.

"Nice to me you, er- Uncle Joe?" George said, realizing he didn't remember the old man's name.

"You may call me just John."

John hauled George to his feet, where he had a better look at the room. There was a lamp standing in the corner, and it was on. He made a mental note to tell his father. His brain was already scheming an escape... he figured his mother had planned ahead and had told John to lock up the Floo Powder... he could tell Mr. Weasley that the house was hooked up with electricity and slip quietly into the fire when his father was ogling the plugs and light fixtures-

"This is your cousin, Quentin-" John said, pointing at a homely, orange-haired boy, "-and his best friend, Joeb."

George nodded to two boys younger than he, twisting his mouth into a smile.

Joeb was greasy and looked like he could be a Flint, or maybe a Crabbe. Under an awning of oily black hair, a pair small black eyes set in a thick, protruding brow. Though his mouth hung open stupidly, he seemed to be studying George with serious thought.

Quentin looked sort of like Ron, and about the same age, only bigger, beaten with an ugly stick, and with twice the freckles. He was smiling, gigantic, blinding, box-shaped teeth gleaming. They reminded George of ice cubes.

He turned to give Fred a look, and then remembered Fred wasn't there.

It was an odd feeling, to not have Fred beside him. It was like he'd forgotten to bring something important with him, like his money bag, or his arms and legs. Like he was standing before his Uncle and cousin completely naked. George hated it.

"Can we show George where he's gonna sleep?" Quentin asked in a lazy American accent.

"When you finish your dinner, Quents," John said fondly, smiling for the first time.

George took a moment to reflect on the hate his mother must feel for him. Why else would she send him here? Perhaps she'd forgotten how repulsive what was left of her side of the family was. Maybe she thought six kids were quite enough.

Quentin and Joeb shoveled the last of the food into their mouths and ran down the hall.

"Come on, cuz!" Quentin beckoned.

George dolefully pulled out his wand and was about to lift his trunk with it when John gripped him hard by the shoulder. George cried out in surprise.

"Don't be a show off," His uncle said, and though George was confused by this, he stuffed his wand back into his robes. "I'll send it in later. Go after your cousin."

George obliged, feeling his stomach tighten. He blinked furiously to hold back burning tears. Seeking sympathy from Fred, he looked woefully over his shoulder…

But Fred wasn't there.

Greater sorrows awaited George in the bedroom. He found that he was going to share a narrow bunk bed with Quentin, in a tiny space with one filthy window. It closely resembled the living room, in that garbage and bedroom-appropriate things like dirty socks and underpants were piled in every corner. Quentin and Joeb were sitting among it all, pressing buttons on strange contraptions that were connected to what George recognized as a television.

"What is that?" George awed.

"It's called a video game, stupid. Got it for Christmas," Quentin said, pressing furiously with his thumbs.

"Can I give it a try?"

Quentin regarded him as if he were insane. "Can't you see we're playing?"

So much for hospitality, George thought. He kicked some underwear out of the way and sat on the floor. After a short while Joeb apparently lost and cursed loudly, throwing his controller at the television. Both boys turned to stare at him. George stared back, for what seemed like many silent minutes.

"Dad says you've got a twin brother," Quentin finally said. It sounded almost like a taunt.

"I do," said George, feeling very lonely, "His name's Fred."

"You look alike?" grunted Joeb in a low, gurgling voice.

George nodded. "We're identical."

Two pairs of eyes stared densely at him for several seconds.

Joeb repeated, "Do you look alike?"

Ugh, George thought, but out loud he said, "Yes, exactly alike."

Joeb and Quentin nodded in approval.

"Dad says my Aunt Molly and Uncle Arthur sent you here cause you're good-for-nothing." Quentin said with a smirk.

"Oh?" A knot formed in George's throat.

"Yeah," Quentin snorted, and his expression went from a sneer to one of interest, "he said you and your brother got in heaps of trouble."

George turned to smile mischievously at Fred, but it faded quickly. Fred was still not there. "Yeah, we did. All the time. Had lots of fun, we did."

"Torture any animals?" Joeb asked excitedly.

"Heard you sent your brother Percy a dragon turd in the mail."

"Do you ever-"

For the next hour or so George was subjected to an endless stream of questions that grew stupider as they went along (do you reckon you've got look-alike guts?) until George was grinding his teeth so as not to scream. (Is your sister hot?) He made deep grooves in his palms with his fingernails (what about your mom?), so as not to strangle Quentin and or his friend to death, only because if he did, he knew he'd never see Fred again.

That night George was relieved when Quentin's snores filled the smelly little room. Something gnawed at his belly, and though he felt very stupid for crying, he did. He cried for a long time, knowing it would only be two months, and then he would be with Fred all year, but he cried on. He tried to remind himself that summer always passed in the blink of an eye for them- but it wasn't them anymore, was it?

He awoke just before the sun had fully risen and turned over to wake Fred, to tell him about the horrible nightmare he'd had and that maybe testing the blood candy on Ron was a bad idea- but instead he fell off of Quentin's top bunk and almost landed on Joeb. He crawled back up and sniffed bitterly, wondering what his twin was doing.

* * * * *

"He doesn't want to come down, dear," Mr. Weasley was telling Mrs. Weasley as he came into the kitchen, "He says he's not hungry."

Mrs. Weasley looked up toward the second floor. "Of course he's hungry. He had no breakfast or dinner. Bill, you go talk to him, will you?"

Bill had his nose in the paper. "Let him alone."

"I will not let him sulk all day long. And get your feet off my clean table! Charlie-"

"I'll have nothing to do with it, mum. I'm here to enjoy my vacation. Let him be upset. I'd be upset."

"It's only for two months. He's not a baby." Mrs. Weasley began to slice the piece of ham in front of her. "Ron-"

"Are you kidding?" Ron shook his head, "He blames me for everything, and hates me for it."

"Ginny-"

"Oh mum, no! Don't make me do it!"

"Fredsie darling!" Mrs. Weasley bellowed sweetly. "You'll come down here and eat lunch right now."

No reply.

"Sweetie!" she called, "You must eat!"

Still no reply.

"I'LL HOME SCHOOL YOU NEXT YEAR!"

Fred let out a groan and could be heard ambling down the stairs.

He came wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms, his hair sticking straight up. His eyes were red and angry, a scowl fixed on his pale face. He sat hard at the table, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Haven't forgiven me, I see?" Mrs. Weasley said, clucking as she dumped a slice of ham on his plate. He glowered at it.

"I feel sick," Fred said, "I've learned my lesson. Can George come back now?"

Mrs. Weasley laughed and sat down in her place. "I don't think so, young man. You'd be up to your old tricks in less than an hour."

Fred looked at her with pleading eyes. "Please, mum. We're sorry. We won't-"

"-stop speaking like that." His mother said, "You are not a 'we.'"

Fred was mute for the rest of tea, stared angrily at his plate, and ate nothing.

* * * * * *

After breakfast the next morning Joeb went home and George and Quentin were sent out to the barn for "morning chores."

George tried his best not to notice what a lovely morning it was. The sun was creeping up behind the mountains; the birds were singing- the crisp air cleared the grog quickly from his head. The grass was cold but refreshing under his bare feet.

He was thankful that he was in the middle of nowhere only because he had been presented with a pair of huge overalls to wear, and was feeling ridiculous. They had obviously belonged to John, who was much taller than he, because the straps were so long that the back flap nearly exposed his bottom. He wore a long night shirt under it to cover himself. He could almost hear Fred laughing at him.

Two cows were mooing idiotically in the barn, idly chewing their cuds. George instantly hated the cows, and the barn, and his Uncle and mother and cousin. When he looked over his shoulder he hated Fred, too.

Quentin sat a stool next to the fat brown cow. "I'll show you how to do it this time, and you can milk the other cow." He put his hands on the cow's udder and George made a face.

"You're not going to use magic?"

Quentin shrugged. "I can't."

"Why, is it not allowed?"

Quentin began to milk the cow. "I dunno."

"What do you mean you don't know?"                                                                  

His cousin shot him a dirty look over his shoulder. "I don't know if it's allowed. No concern of mine."

George was thoroughly confused for a moment before he realized. At first, he was laughing on the inside. Then he thought of how horrible it would be, and felt kind of sorry for the kid.

"You're a Squib." He said softly.

Quentin jumped from his stool and was suddenly two inches from George's face, his square white teeth bared.

"What did you call me?"

George wasn't frightened, as Quentin was younger and smaller, but he put his hand up and took a step back. "No offense. That's what you- they're called. It's not a bad name."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Quentin asked, taking a threatening step forward, nose to nose with George again.

 "You don't know what a..." he trailed off.

"WHAT?" Quentin demanded. He puffed out his chest and pushed it into George.

"You're not a wizard!" George cried.

Quentin seemed to calm down and backed away. "Oh, finally he speaks English. No, I'm not."

"Your father is, isn't he?"

"Yeah, but that don't make me one. Now what did you call me?"

"A Squib," George said, baffled. How could a Squib not know he was a Squib? "All it means is that your parents are wizards and you don't have magical powers."

"Is that what you call it?" Quentin said casually, his back still toward George, rhythmically milking the cow. "Ha- I thought you were calling me some kind of insulting Brit word."

George couldn't believe his ears. No wonder they lived way the hell out here. His uncle must have brought Quentin to live away from the magical community so he wouldn't ever have to know how shameful it was. George wondered if it was a noble gesture, or if John was ashamed of having a non-magical son, or both.

It made him feel different about being there. Here he was, all bent out of shape because he had to be away from his brother for a couple months. At least he wasn't a Squib!

"Your turn," Quentin said when his bucket was full. He nodded toward the second cow, which was slightly smaller.

George put the bucket under the animal and thought for a moment. Magically milking a cow was definitely not a subject they'd covered at Hogwarts. He wondered if shrinking the udder to push all the milk out would do the trick. It would, he reckoned, but it would probably hurt the cow.

Finally settled on his most intelligent extraction spell and pointed his wand at the udder. He hoped silently that he didn't murder the cow, and spoke the words. Milk was flowing into the bucket.

"Whoa!" Quentin's jaw dropped. "Dad didn't tell me you were a wizard!"

"Yeah-" Of course I am, George almost said, but shut his mouth just in time.

"Is Fred a wizard, too?"

George nodded again, feeling a sudden cramp all down stomach and chest. He winced. He felt the acute absence of his brother, like an aggressive hunger pang. It was an entirely unpleasant feeling.

Quentin looked concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," George said, gulping and rubbing his chest, "Just missing my brother."

"It's not even been a day." Quentin picked up his pail and headed toward the barn door. "Can you show me more magic later? I'd really like to see."

George regarded him strangely. "Surely you see your father do it all the time?"

"Nothing more interesting then summoning a beer every now and then," Quentin replied, "He says most of the time it's not necessary. Laziness, he calls it. But I think it's cool."

George said nothing. As they walked back across the yard, he felt the dewy grass under his feet, the warmth of the sun on his back, and began to feel a little better.