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Fred woke up from a fevered dream he could not recall and jerked up with a gasp. He scrambled to his feet but ended up tangled in his sheets on the floor. He fell to the floor with a jolt. Something itched inside his chest, a place he couldn't scratch, and he screwed his eyes shut, a flash of pain that had nothing to do with falling out of bed spreading heat from his chest to every part of him.

And then it was gone.

"That had to be some ruddy dream, Fred."

Fred groaned and blinked open his eyes to see someone's bare feet on the other side of George's bed. His cheek was against the cold floor, and his eyes weren't cooperating, stinging on the edges if he didn't blink fast enough. "It's George," he said automatically. "Jeesh, we've only been dorming for how many years…"

"Well, Sorry-"

"Heh," he snickered, his chest still aching. Why did it hurt anyway? "Just kidding. Hello from Fred." Fred smirked into the sheet and pressed his nose into the floor and still did not get up. There were weird dust bunnies under George's bed along with several old candy wrappers and an old sock... Whoever it was he was talking to, probably Sean, huffed and walked off with a whatever, man, it's almost breakfast, and Fred sat up, disappointed that he hadn't managed to get an argument out of him. Honestly, what was the point of talking if there wasn't banter as well? He lifted his hand to rub his eyes, and then paused, staring at his hand in confusion. There wasn't anything different about it. Same long fingers. Same scar on his pinky. Same feel as he clenched and unclenched it. But… despite this, there was something decidedly strange. He felt odd and he couldn't quite figure out what it was that bothered him. Pursing his lips, Fred shook away the strange feeling and stood, noting George's empty bed. He was probably in the shower.

Fred leaned his head back against his bed and frowned. He was forgetting something fundamental here… He got to his feet and ran a hand through his tangled hair. What was it?

Then George stumbled in, eyes red with exhaustion. His hair was wet and he scuffed it with his hand, meeting Fred's gaze. Instantly, several emotions flashed through them. Relief, fear, sadness, confusion.

Fred blinked and the memories of the previous night came barrelling back. "Oh," he whispered. He froze until everyone wandered out but George and looked down at his ankle. It had been bandaged but did not hurt at all. He frowned at it like he had personally offended him. "How did you get me back here?" Fred whispered.

George smirked but it lacked its usual luster. "It wasn't easy, let me tell you. You kept babbling nonsense and I had to practically carry you, but we made it back eventually." His eyes zipped down to his ankle, which Fred was standing on easily. "How is it?"

"Doesn't hurt." Fred shrugged, sat down on his bed and pulled it onto his other knee. He glanced around quickly and then undid the bandage. His tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth, and George's handiwork fell away quickly.

Fred's mouth dropped open. "What?"

"What?" George sat beside him and they stared at his ankle for a long moment. There was indeed a scar. White bite marks on either side of his leg.

But it could have been there for years, as far as they could tell. Fred frowned. "I thought you couldn't get the spells to-"

"They weren't! I tried every spell I knew. Couldn't get it to heal."

Fred pursed his lips and wrapped up the bandage. He stowed it in his dresser and continued looking at the odd thing. "Maybe your spells were delayed or something."

"But magic doesn't leave scars."

"Maybe it does. It's certainly convenient either way."

George glared at him and stood. He scratched at his chin and rubbed the back of his neck. Something was bothering him, and it bothered Fred that he hadn't shared it already.

"Well…" Fred stood and grabbed his uniform, remembering with regret leaving his outer robe in the forest. There was no way he was going back there for at least a little bit. Especially at night. Yes, avoiding the forest at night would be a good idea from this day forward. "I feel fine. Actually…" Fred considered himself for a moment and shrugged. "I feel great. Your magic probably just took a bit long, that's all."

George hesitated to nod and Fred huffed.

"What, George?"

"Nothing." The twin pursed his lips and grabbed his school bag. "Just a stupid thought. You should get dressed."

Fred didn't move, instead watching his brother move about the room, stuffing several dung bombs into his pockets and a few stuttering chocolate bars. Finally, George met his gaze, almost angry. "Well? Are we going or not?"

"Yeah," Fred answered quietly. "Yeah."

Fred did not often have arguments with his brother, and when he did, they usually ended up tackling each other and laughing after a few minutes.

And he wasn't really sure if this counted at an argument since neither was particularly mad at the other. But something was bugging George and George wouldn't tell him and George always told him.

It was driving him mad because, for the first time in forever, Fred didn't feel exactly in sync with his twin. Instead, they were quiet and Fred wasn't sure what exactly to do to fix the problem. He didn't know what George was thinking. And it was horribly strange.

Even other people started noticing. They looked at them when Fred responded and George did not finish the statement, or when they did not speak to each other for an entire period other than to smirk about Ron's inability to pay attention with Granger sitting so nearby.

But none of that was really weird. It wasn't until lunch that something strange happened. At lunch, both boys ate with opposite hands when they always both ate with their right.

Which was fine and all and whatever but Fred wasn't left handed.

Hermione Granger, the pretty, bookish girl that was already slotted in his mind as his future sister-in-law once Ron got his act together, was the one to point it out. "I thought you were right handed?" she said, cocking her head thoughtfully. Fred chewed and frowned. He glanced at George but he was staring at his food. Git.

Fred looked at his hand, moved the fingers, remembering the odd feeling from earlier. "I… am." He switched hands but fumbled with the fork until he needed to switch back to his left. Hermione watched him with casual amusement.

"Apparently not," she noted unhelpfully.

Confused, Fred switched back and forth and turned it upside down to mime writing. It felt horribly awkward in his right and comfortable in his left. Yesterday, the opposite had been true. Hermione chuckled, and Fred got the feeling she thought he was joking with her. "Weird," he said to himself.

"Stop it," George murmured in the barest whisper. It was his first attempt at verbal communication since the dorm room and Fred looked at him in surprise.

"Oh, what do you know, it speaks."

George rolled his eyes but enforced his previous message with his eyes. Trusting him, Fred shrugged and dropped the fork. He tangled his hands in his lap and his leg jittered up and down with nervous energy. An annoying girl whose name started with a P or something (he really didn't pay attention. She was too young for them and barely a 4 on their hotness scale) balanced her head in her hands. "Did you guys have a fight or something?"

Fred blinked at her and raised an eyebrow. He answered dryly. "Or something-"

"-that isn't your business," George finished. Good, at least he wasn't being silent anymore.

Pretty-ish P, (was it Patsy or something? Pansy?) lifted her hands in surrender. "Sorry, I asked."

Fred was spared having to respond by the commotion at the front of the dining hall. Dumbledore, dressed in blue robes, his glasses dangling on the edge of his nose, stood and waited for the room to quiet. Which it did, quickly. Fred drummed his fingers on the table until Dean, who was busy stuffing his face with a croissant, smacked his hand. "Dude, you're making me nervous."

Fred smirked. "It's okay. I have that effect on people."

"Haha," he answered, deadpan.

Then Dumbledore's voice filled the hall, amplified by magic. He clasped his hands behind his back. "I do not wish to alarm you. I know we already are dealing with enough with our… unfortunate guest patrolling the grounds," (that would be the Dementors) "but it seems that our forest is currently inhabited by a migrating group of, ah, dangerous creatures. They will not bother us if we stay out of our way, and they will be gone within a few days, but it is of dire importance that no one enter the Forbidden Forest. This should not be an issue for any of us since you should not be there anyhow... But it is a reminder all the same. That is all." With that, the headmaster sat down and continued popping down his boiled eggs. Was it just him or were all the teachers staring pointedly at Gryffindor? Gosh, it's like they had a reputation or something.

Fred met George's eyes, who looked slightly ill. Dangerous creatures. That was just a bit of an understatement. Giant red-eyed wolves are roaming around the forest wanting to take bites out of people's legs but please, just keep eating. Don't mess with them and they won't mess with you.

It wasn't a ruddy beehive. Fred opened his mouth to remark on this but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Hush. We cannot connect us to them."

Fred glanced at his twin, disconcerted by his serious expression. "I don't understand."

"I know." George shifted his weight. "Just in case, okay?"

"Okay?"

The rest of the day sped by in strange increments filled either with irritation at George's silence, or with the strange headache building in the back of Fred's mind. He felt progressively more and more jumpy but couldn't exactly pin down the reason. He didn't want to mention it to George lest he worry and-

Wait.

They were walking in the middle of a corridor in between classes when Fred stopped abruptly and spun on his twin. People grunted and moved around them.

"You're worried. That's why you won't tell me what's bothering you. You think I'll worry."

George blinked. "Yes," he answered simply. "I'm probably wrong so there's no point-"

"George."

George chewed his lip. "Those were… very large wolves."

"I know. You keep saying that."

"With red eyes. What kind of wolf has red eyes?"

Fred stilled. He shook his head minutely because he'd known from the beginning what sort of wolf had red eyes. Suddenly, he snorted. "That would be my luck, wouldn't it?"

George said nothing and Fred was forced to sigh and continue.

"We shouldn't worry. They were just wolves." Of course, they were. They had to be.

"Red-eyed wolves. I just think we should make sure it wasn't."

Fred opened his mouth to protest.

"You're right, it's probably just a wolf," George said hurriedly and quietly.

"It was."

"Then we should make sure."

Fred mulled over this, fresh sparks of fear filling his gut at the thought. He took a shuttering breath and nodded once, sharply. There wasn't anything to worry about. It was just a pack of wolves. That's all they'd been. Reassured, he smirked. "Well, if it were true, I'd at least have a chance at growing decent facial hair."

"Fred," George groaned.

But they'd been just normal wolves. So it was okay to joke about it. It wasn't real. It couldn't be.

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