DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything, and if you offered me money for this, first I would call you a foolish person, and then I would refused, and tell you that these are JK Rowling's characters! No copyright infringement was intended. Pay no attention to the woman behind the laptop.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE UNBEARABLE LIKENESS

Charlie nearly vomited. His terrified blood rushed out of his body and into his head, pounding there, making him weak all over. His mind overloaded and threatened to shut it self off. The boy in the doorway took a step forward and Charlie recoiled in horror, backing himself into the sink until he was sitting on a pile of dirty dishes.

George?

His tee-shirt had a big, black "G" on it, and blue pajama bottoms- wasn't that what he'd been wearing the morning-?

His hair was cut just how George used to keep it, but the way he looked timidly about the room did not look like George at all…

The water from the dishes was soaking into the back of his pants. He stared for a long, long time at the boy, and a dish broke under his bottom before he was able to crawl out of the basin. Retaining the very last little bit of his sanity, he held the boy at arm's length - that's exactly what he was, still just a boy, his pores had not enlarged with age, he did not have the beginnings of fine lines as Fred did- he looked just as Charlie remembered him, the night before he died.

George was standing in front of him. George, who had died in his arms. George, whom he was not able to save from death. George, that he and Ron and Bill had spent hours digging a deep enough hole for. George, who Charlie had taken into his arms one last time, and lowered him into this hole, with a back and head and heart ache that still had yet to go away.

Charlie had seen the death in George's eyes. He'd seen the sheer fear, he'd seen George realize that his big brother would not be able to save him. He had seen George look desperately around for Fred in his final moments- and that looked burned him. Worse than any dragon, and would always be with him, until the day he died himself.

"Who are you?" Charlie demanded, his face twisted in grief and anger. "Why are you doing this?"

The boy laughed at him. The way George used to laugh, though this laugh indicated that he was nervous and didn't comprehend the accusation.

Everything blurred in front of Charlie, and for a moment he feared he might faint. He leaned on the icebox for support, his legs mush beneath him.

"You have two seconds to leave. You can't be…" he choked.

"Say, Chuck, what's going on?" Scott wanted to know.

"I can't be what?"

Charlie released the boy and took a moment to gain his composure. He rubbed his eyes. "Fred?"

"Does Fred live here? I'm looking for my brother Fred," the boy came into the house, toward Charlie, "I'm his twin brother, George."

"Look here, boy," said Ian, scowling at him, "If you was going to play such a tasteless prank, you couldn't at least done your research. If you're George than he's your brother, too."

The George's eyes brightened. "You're my brother, too?"

"You're caught," said Scott. Both of Charlie's flat mates were inching slowly toward the boy, circling him. He began to look a bit nervous.

"Tell me who you really are." Charlie whispered.

"Well I'm not Fred," he laughed again, a little uneasily, "I am George. Who else would I be?"

"No... no!" Charlie insisted. "You are not George. George is dead. How could you expect me to believe-"

"I'm not dead!"

"Yes, you are! I mean yes, he did. He died-"

"I did no such thing."

"You'd better leave off, kid." said Scott darkly.

"YES HE DID!" Charlie screamed, "HE DID HE DID HE DID! How could you think this is funny? This is your last warning- I don't want to hurt anybody… if my poor brother comes out here and sees you-"

"I didn't die," said George indignantly, crossing his arms. "And I need to find my brother Fred. We're twins."

"What's all the noise?"

If Charlie had time to think, he would've done anything to prevent what happened next. Just as he was lunging at the George, Fred appeared in the doorway. His face was puffy from crying and still obstructed by the stubble of a beard. He was skeletal in Charlie's bathrobe, and when he spotted the boy who claimed to be George, he looked very, very old, and ready to vomit, as Charlie had moments earlier. He fell against the door frame and began to shake, gaping at the boy.

"Fred!" The boy shrieked.

Charlie grabbed the back of his shirt so he could not move.

Fred swayed. His eyes began to roll back, but he shook it away, slid down the door frame and knelt, hyperventilating, on the floor. His brain seemed to be struggling to keep working.

Tears sprung to Charlie's eyes. He charged once again at the boy.

"This is a sick joke," Charlie hissed, shaking the George, "Tell me who the fuck you are!"

"I-I-"

"DID YOU DIG HIM UP?" Charlie roared, "For the hair?"

"W-what?"

"THE HAIR! FOR THE POLYJUICE, YOU SICK FUCK!"

"George?" came Fred's weak voice from the doorway. He was still on his hands and knees, staring at the floor with huge, petrified eyes. "Is it you?"

"It can't be, Freds-"

"Yes, yes Fred, of course its me!"

Charlie, blind with rage, smacked the boy, hard, with a closed fist.

Fred and George yelped in unison. Charlie was stunned to see Fred rubbing the side of his head. Everything went deadly silent, Scott and Ian circling around the boy and Charlie, Fred white as death, staring at the floor. Charlie looked down at the George, who in turn looked back with round and innocent eyes. He blinked, obviously frightened that Charlie might snap him in half. It was that looked- the same look Fred was in the habit of giving him- like Charlie was a mean and intimidating.

"Let him go, Charlie."

"No! He's dead! George is dead! You've got to remember-"

"I can take care of myself, Charlie. Let him go."

Charlie ignored him, shaking the George, "I'll see you Kissed for this, and then I'll kill you myself!"

"You want me to have to see that twice?" Fred said vacantly, sitting back on his knees.

"I cannot allow this to happen. There is no way, Fred, people cannot come back from the dead-"

"I know it's always been your place to try and protect all of us, Charlie," Fred said calmly, "but this is what I've been waiting for. I've felt him growing closer. I knew he was coming here."

"You're ill, Freds, please," Charlie pleaded, "please don't let this bastard-"

"I can take care of myself."

"NOT IN MY HOUSE YOU WON'T!"

Fred shut his eyes tight, squeezing the doorframe. Tears were threatening to drown his face. "Give me five minutes alone with him, and then we'll leave."

Charlie knew that he had two choices, both of which were equally miserable. He could toss the boy out, or escort him into the main hall of the dorm and kill him. Fred would hate him and continue his search until he was old and gray. His other choice was letting Fred find out for himself. Perhaps Fred would finally be able to except- or perhaps he would go catatonic with insanity… at least that way Charlie could look after him.

There was no right choice, but whether the George was murdered now or in five minutes would make no difference to Fred's mental health.

Charlie let the boy go.

He ran to Fred, dropping down to be at eye level, and Fred lifted his eyes to look at him.

"Where have you been?" Fred asked as his hand slid around his brother's back.

"I don't know."

Charlie was disturbed to see that this answer was good enough for Fred. And the look of relief on his face- had it really been George- the look of relief on Fred's face would have lifted every bit of the suffocating weight on Charlie's shoulders. That look would have lightened his very soul…

But no.

They were no longer identical. Fred had aged too fast. Though it showed little in his skin, his eyes and face weary with age and travel. As the twins embraced Charlie could see, after the initial relief of having his so-called brother back, that Fred was struggling to believe.

Charlie walked around so he could see the face of the boy who said he was George. A vacant, mindless smile; nothing deceitful. The George helped Fred off the floor and they disappeared in the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind them.

Charlie didn't know what to do.

He thought of the rest of his family. What would they think? What of Percy?

"I don't know" was not a good enough answer for Charlie.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around, nearly punching Ian in the nose. Ian ducked and fell over, spilling his beer- by now alcohol was drying and sticky all over the flat.

"Whoa, Charlie," he said.

"What?" Charlie barked.

"What is-"

"I don't know. Why don't you go back to the party?"

"Fitzie's already passed out- seriously Charlie, what is going on?"

"My brother has apparently come back from the dead," he replied, hardly believing what had just come out of his mouth. He reached for a chair and sat hard.

"This is dark magic, this is," commented Scott, who had shuffled over.

"You reckon somebody's used Polyjuice?" whispered Ian.

"Obviously, idiot."

"So tie him up for an hour."

"How long was he at Fitzie and Darla's?"

"Well, he wasn't, until Darla invited him in."

"What was he doing?"

"Wandering the halls, I guess."

"The door was wide open. He came in and was asking for himself- at least we thought he was asking for himself-"

"-we just played along... we thought he was having some sort of loony episode."

"Well, how long was- how long was he there after that?"

"I don't know... I guess she told him to come in around..." Ian scratched his head. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine."

Scott and Ian looked at each other, confused. "I guess it's been well over an hour then."

Charlie groaned and slouched. "Did you see him drink anything?"

Ian shrugged. "A sip of beer."

"Chuck," said Scott, "It's feeding time. We forgot to do it at three."

"Tell Sam I'm having a family emergency. I can't be rounding up pigs right now. Just go… I need to be alone with this."

"Do you need anything?"

"Just go, please."

Alone in the kitchen, Charlie went once again to the icebox. He paused as his hand closed around a bottle of beer. He left it on the shelf and opened the freezer, reaching for the Odgen's Old Firewhiskey that was strictly reserved for Saturday nights. So it was Friday. What did it matter?

He took the entire bottle back to the table with him and slouched over it, wiping its cold surface over his forehead. His mind was blank.

Suddenly his brother was standing next to him. Charlie jumped.

Fred pulled up a chair. "He says he's eighteen. He asked me why I look so old."

"You don't honestly believe-"

"It's George," Fred replied, licking his lips, "But it's not. I don't know how to explain it any better."

Charlie gagged as he took a swig from the bottle. "Honesty, Fred, honestly now- you don't remember anything from that morning?"

Fred's eyes became wet. He went to his giant hiking pack, and after a little while of digging, produced his wand. He came back to the table and conjured a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and offered it to Charlie, who declined, taking another drink.

"Since when do you smoke?"

"Since right now."

"So you remember."

Fred nodded sadly, wiping away a tear that was dripping down his cheek. "I don't remember it happening. I- I can't remember that. There was a time when I suppose I did… I remember that's what everyone told me. I remember George putting a gumball in his mouth, and then I woke up one day in a strange place. Even though Bill was right there in the next bed, sick, I knew I was alone. All I could remember or feel was that I was alone, and I hated Percy."

"And that's it?"

"Alone, Charlie. Single. You have no idea what that feels like. How scary it is. Imagine waking up one morning with your legs gone. Wouldn't you still try and wiggle your toes, Charlie?"

Fred paused, but clearly didn't expect an answer.

"How could I except what people told me, Charlie? How could I believe George was dead if I didn't remember it? I told myself he had to be out there somewhere. But I couldn't ignore the silence inside of me- it's like his thoughts and feelings were always running in the back of my mind- I didn't notice them until they were gone- that's what made it so hard to believe he was still alive... I started telling myself lies… but it's loud and clear, now. George really did die, didn't he?"

Charlie nodded, his eyes stinging, his throat swollen and tight.

"He's asleep now," Fred continued, gesturing at the bedroom door, "He was exhausted. He came a long way by himself. I know that's not the George who died in there, but I know it's not someone trying to trick me. I can see what he's dreaming about in the back of my head right now. He's confused. He doesn't know where he came from. He thinks like a child."

"Who is he, then?" Charlie asked shrilly. He was beginning to feel a little drunk.

"It's like- it's like someone made him... like a shadow, or shell, or copy of George. I don't feel the same connection with him as I had with Georgie, because I didn't grow up with him, but it's still George. It's still my twin, I can feel it. Made of all the same stuff that George was, but it's like he's brand new. "

Fred butted his cigarette. Charlie rubbed his eyes, trying hard to process all that his brother had just said. "This is insane, Freds."

"I know."

"I can't trust anything you say," Charlie told him gently, "You've been sick in the head for a long time. I can't know that what you think you feel is really what you feel. We need to take him to the Ministry and find out what the hell he is."

"I am not sick in the head. I thought I just explained that to you."

"You say someone made him. Who? Why?"

"I don't know that." Fred lit another cigarette, choking on it. "He doesn't know who you are. You scared him. You should apologize."

"If it's 'a copy' of George, then how could he not know who I am?"

"He only knows what he'd learned since he was created… and that I missed him and wanted to find him."

"How in Merlin's Beard can you be sure of all this?"

"He's my twin."

Charlie was getting frustrated. "How the hell can he be your twin if Mum didn't give birth to him?"

Fred spoke slowly and deliberately, in a manner that infuriated Charlie. "He is an exact replica of George."

"That's like saying if I have two identical cloaks, they're the same cloak!" Charlie waved his hands, "But they aren't, because here's one cloak and here's the other. By that logic, you could say that since George was your identical twin that you're the same person."

"Exactly. When we were born, we were. Then we grew and learned and slight differences occurred. The George in your bedroom is not my George from seven years ago, but is somehow made from George. I know that because I feel it. And so he's as much my twin physically as George was. Like I said, it's George, but it isn't."

Charlie didn't know whether to believe this lunacy or cry or rejoice or get mad. He settled for gulping down a bit more firewater. "And you're fine with this?"

"Fine with what?"

"With this… 'replica' of George?"

"Of course. He's George."

"He's not George!"

"I'm responsible for him."

"Why?"

"Because he's my twin!"

"Don't you think this is odd? Don't you wonder where the hell he came from?"

Fred shrugged.

"This kind of magic doesn't exist!"

"Yes it does," Fred told him, "Even Muggles can do it. They just need a lot of machinery."

Charlie blinked several times. He brought the bottle back up to his mouth and chugged, not caring that the whiskey was dripping down his chin and the front of his shirt.

It was too much. All too much.

"This is insane. I can't deal with this. You're my brother, Fred, and I love you, and you are always welcome here, but I can't deal with any 'replica' of George. People don't come back to life!"

"Stop drinking, you'll make yourself sick," Fred reached for the bottle, but Charlie jerked it away.

"I want you and your carbon copy out of here by tomorrow morning. When you come to your senses and realize that he's got to take a drink of something every hour in order to stay your twin, you can come cry on my shoulder, but until then…"

Charlie trailed off, took another drink, and collapsed on the table, hugging the bottle close.

Just thought I should mention, in case any of you disagree with me referring to an eighteen year old as a boy, I'm twenty- one, so to me he is. My boyfriend is almost twenty-four and I'm still waiting for him to grow up… anyway, sorry to those of you who wished the story would lighten up. Not in this chapter. I fear that now I'm going to lose half my readers because you must be terribly disappointed. Here, maybe this will make you feel better.

TRELAWNEY AND FLEUR : A TRADGEDY UNFORSEEN

PART TWO: FLEUR SUCKS

Rated R see above for disclaimer.

Bill didn't attend the funerals. He didn't have any clean underwear and well, what if there was a car wreck at the burials? What if he was unconscious and unable to make excuses for his less-than-fresh drawers? No, it just wouldn't do.

He was kinda sorta starting to feel a little bit bad about it, but Charlie was kind enough to remind him that there weren't any funerals to attend, as the bodies of Fleur and Trelawney were never recovered (nobody bothered to look for them).

Charlie suggested they go to Snape's kegger instead.

It was a wild party. There was like, five hundred kegs there, and it was the good stuff, not crappy beer like PBR or Hamm' s.

But then tragedy struck. Right after the cops left for the fourth time, just as the party was peaking, and they broke out the bottle and started to spin it, and Ron was swinging his shirt over his head, and Charlie was already collecting dollars from the ladies, and Ginny was that close to losing it with (insert your favorite pairing here), and Madam Pince was letting her hair down, and Sirius was like, hanging from a tree, and no one knew how he got up there, but he couldn't get down, and they were all searching around for their wands but Snape had wisely put them all in a bowl of water in the freezer so no one could do any drunken magic, and everyone was yelling "Jump, Sirius, we'll catch you," the giant squid surfaced from the water and with an irritated squawk, threw Fleur's body right up onto the deck.

It was gross.

The grossest part was that she was still alive and well. Luckily, before she could open her annoying little mouth, they threw her back in.

Don't worry, Sirius got down fine.

THE END

Once again, I apologize. It's really late. Feeling a little loopy.