Disclaimers, notes, etc: so, my betas are kind of MIA. We'll have to say goodbye to Joy Drop- she can't do it anymore. *waves* bye Joy Drop! Thanks! Okay. So. I wrote this chapter because… I'm desperately in love with Sean Biggerstaff. Okay, that's stretching it. He's just the prettiest on-screen Irish boy this side of the neighborhood. J

Right. This chapter contains lovely Fred angst, Oliver, and twincest hints. I tried to incorporate some hinting at Oliver and Percy but I dunno. I don't think I did too well. So!

Chapter 8: Locker Hall

        He smiled. It was all so familiar; he had desperately missed the comfort that lingered in the air. It still smelled of sweat and steam and soap, the irresistible scent of nostalgia. Of course it smelled like it always did- it was a boys locker room.

        His old locker remained empty. There were always too many lockers, anyway. Out of respect, he assumed, for him, they had simply left his open.

        The sound of water pounding against the shower floor drew his attention. The game wouldn't start for another few hours- and no one used the showers here, not anymore. They were slick and disgusting with age, mold creeping in from every crack. The Weasley twins had once dared him to shower in them and it had been quite possibly the most disgusting experience of his career at Hogwarts. And that was saying something.

        The shower was soon accompanied by a new, hollower sound: thump, thump, thump. The sound of a head hitting a wall. He would know; he'd done it himself quite a few times. The soft, human sound that followed it was also unmistakable. A sob.

        He walked to the showers, and peered through the steam. A fully clothed Weasley stood in the stream of water, the back of his head pressed against the moldy tiled walls. A faint pink scar glistened in the light, running over the Weasley's collarbone, barely half an inch long.

        "Fred?" He asked, in confusion. He had given the boy that scar, three or four years ago, in a collision. It was how he told the twins apart.

        Fred's eyes flew open. "Shit." The twin gasped, scrambling to turn the water off, to wipe his eyes, to get the residue from the wall out of his hair. "What- what are you doing here?"

        He blinked in confusion. "I came to watch the game. I owled you a few weeks ago, to tell you I would. Just… wanted to see the old locker room, before the game." He paused. "What are you doing here?"

        Fred shrugged. "Showering."

        "With your clothes on?"

        Fred's cheeks turned the same color as his hair, and then said, "How long have you been here, Oliver?"

        "Long enough to hear you bashing your head against that rather disgusting shower wall." He raised his eyebrows. "Where's your other half?"

        Fred stormed past him, mumbling "Accio towel!" as he went. "Don't know, don't care." He caught the towel and began drying his hair and face.

        He felt like laughing at this; the twins never fought. And they always knew where the other was. In fact, they always knew because they were never apart. He didn't laugh, though, because he realized there had to be something wrong between the twins, because unless he was a moron and blind, George wasn't in the locker hall with Fred, and Fred had just been trying to dent the old shower wall with his head, with his clothes on, while the water ran. "Did you- did you have a fight?" He asked tentatively.

        Fred snorted. "Something like that, yeah." He flung his towel to the floor.

        "What about?" He was on unsure ground. The twins had never fought- he'd never had to deal with this. Percy, of course, had been upset with the twins and with the world, but they were different kinds of people, the twins and Percy. There were so many different levels on which his relationship functioned with Percy- and he knew him so well- while his relationship with the twins was simple, basic. They were on the same Quidditch team; they were in the same house.

        Fred shrugged. "Don't want to talk about it." He mumbled, and began to walk towards the door. "Great seeing you, Oliver, hope to see you at the game, team's not the same without you-"

        He paused. He'd meant to say this when he was still at school, had meant to ask them, but had always been too embarrassed. He'd wondered, of course, and Percy had never told him otherwise. "Fred- are you in love with him?"

        Fred turned to stare at him.

        He rushed on. "I mean—it's only that—I always thought—the way you look at him—never mind." He was tripping on his words. "Forget I said that," He said to the astonished Weasley. "I didn't mean—I only thought—it's just that I—well, never mind, then." He offered a blustering, mortified smile. "See you at the game, then, right? Good luck, I'm sure you'll win, of course you'll win, see you there, of course…" He made to get past Fred.

        He ran right into Fred's hand. Oliver was muscular from years of Quidditch playing and training, but slight, and in no mood to fight; he backed up and waited for Fred to speak with a sigh.

        Fred's face had turned bright red and Oliver could practically hear his teeth grinding. "Did you tell anyone?" Fred hissed, his eyes narrowing in anger, and confusion, and desperation. "Did you—did you say anything?"

         He frowned. "I might have." He said uncertainly. "I might have said something to- to Percy."

        "Percy?" Fred squeaked. "You told Percy?"

        He shrugged. "Well, he's your brother, you know, I thought he might know something, or whatever, and anyway, he was—we were—" He stumbled again and blushed.

        Fred turned white under his blush. "Too much information." He mumbled, shaking his head. The red was receding blotchily, and under the harsh lighting his skin was a sort of mottled magenta. Oliver felt like laughing again.

        Fred took a deep breath. "Look, Oliver. He doesn't—I only mean to say that, it's my problem. Okay? It's just mine. Don't think—less of George. Okay? Because it's just me."

        He was confused. He raised his eyebrows again. "Um. Why—why would I think less of George? And what do you mean, it's just your problem?"

        Fred coughed. "It's just me, I mean. I'm the only abnormal one. I mean—George would never—George isn't—well, he isn't like me."

        He stared at the redhead for a moment, then shook his head. "Fred, it isn't anything to be ashamed of. I mean, it's just love, right? Even if you are brothers. I mean, God, Fred, everyone's thought you two were together since you came to this school."

        Fred stared blankly at his former team captain. He opened his mouth to reply, but Oliver was already gone.