Fred Weasley was beginning to come to the uncomfortable conclusion that his brother Percy — giant prat that he was — might not be completely wrong about something.

For the sixteen years of his existence, Fred had known one thing to be true: Percy was an idiotic git who cared more about how people were perceived than how they actually were. And so, when Percy parroted Crouch's opinions of Ludo Bagman — because Percy had never been one to actually think for himself — Fred had written it off the way he'd written off just about anything else his dolt of a brother had ever said.

Besides, their dad liked Bagman, and that was good enough for Fred.

But now here he and George were, trying to write another letter to Bagman that didn't outright accuse him of being a no-good thief (even if it was becoming more and more apparent that that's what he actually was) in hopes that they would get what they were owed — not to mention their life savings back.

Contrary to popular opinion, Fred and George weren't reckless, immature gamblers who didn't think past their next joke. Sure, they'd placed a bet at the Quidditch World Cup, but that wasn't gambling. Fred and George were beaters, and they were quite good ones at that. And the thing about beaters? They have to be the best players in the game. Because quidditch is actually two games played at once — the seekers finding the snitch and the keepers and chasers fighting over the quaffle — and beaters were the only ones who had to take part in both games. They had to defend all of their players, all while keeping the opposing chasers from scoring and the opposing seeker from catching the snitch, and do it while flying straight at a fast-moving missile aiming to knock you off your broom. It was work — more work than some inane NEWT, that was for sure, even if Fred and George were so good at their jobs that it looked likefun.

When you were a beater, you didn't have to just know the game — you had to understand the players. So it wasn't gambling when Fred and George placed that bet. They knew players like Krum. He was just as honorable as that dunderhead Diggory, but he had a bit of Harry's contrary, independent nature. Krum would do as he pleased. Fred and George knew it.

And they were right.

But because they didn't put quite as much care into vetting Bagman as they did Krum, they were now out every cent they had ever earned in their life. And if they didn't have that?

Well, no way in hell was Fred ever taking some mind-numbing job at the ministry. He'd be better off letting a dementor suck out his soul — at least the job would get done faster.

"How does this sound?" George murmured, pointing at the paragraph he'd just written on his parchment. They were writing another letter to Bagman — still just pretending the crook somehow didn't realize he'd paid them back in leprechaun gold.

Fred read it: It was deferential and polite and reasonable, when all he wanted to do was punch Bagman in the face. The whole thing made him want to hurl — mostly because he should have known better. He usually read people better than this, but he'd been so excited about doubling their savings that he hadn't taken the time to think things through. He'd just trusted Bagman.

It was Bagman's fault, but mostly, it was Fred's.

He and George had earned that money. They'd spent every moment of their summers that they could stealing away to the village so they could do odd jobs for a few of the local shopkeepers, earning a bit of pocket money. They'd taken every dare Lee Jordan gave them — swallowing everything from dead spiders to gnome dung for as many knuts as Lee had. They'd bit back their retorts every time Aunt Muriel made some snide comment about their dad, knowing that Bill would give them five sickles each just to avoid them hexing her and causing mum a headache. (Fred was not too proud to admit that sometimes he just didn't want to hear his mum hollering at him, either.)

They'd saved everything they had. Sure, they'd spent a little at Zonko's… but that was all research for their own joke shop. And besides, they didn't spend as much as you might think. Whoever was doing the anti-duplication hexes on Zonko's products was terrible at their job. A twelve-year-old could break them. (In fact, two twelve-year-olds had.)

Unlike, their brothers, Fred and George had worked for everything they had. While Ron whinged about how poor they were and Percy tried to cover up his lack of money by lying to everyone, spending galleons he absolutely didn't have on a bet with his girlfriend, Fred and George hustled.

Percy might grumble about how dad wasn't respected at the Ministry, but Fred was proud of their dad for staying in a job he loved, pursuing his passions, instead of selling out for some cushy Ministry position that would eat away at his soul. And the Weasleys had never gone without — they had food, a home, holidays, brooms, everything a kid could want. The only time Fred had ever been worried was when they had to buy five complete sets of Lockhart's absurdly expensive books — but anyone would be skint after that.

So what if they didn't have the best brooms? Their dad was actually happy, and Fred would rather be like him than like Percy any day.

He and George had had a plan. While just about everyone they knew was underestimating them, judging them, wondering why they weren't more like their older brothers, they'd done product research, invented gadgets, experimented, saved, planned. Fred had envisioned everything, and it was all going according to plan — until Bagman stole their money.

And ever since the day they'd realized that, Fred had a pit in his stomach. Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes had to become a reality — not just because they had dreamed it and worked for it for so long, but because the alternative was unbearable.

Fred Weasley was generally a happy person — Angelina said he had a mean streak, and maybe she was right (but then again, he could say the same thing about her) — but he wasn't feeling particularly happy or carefree these days. It was like there was a giant weight on his chest — a giant, Ministry-job-sized weight.

He'd never capitulate, even if Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes never happened. He'd never be another cog, another Percy.

No one should spend decades doing a job they hated. No one should ever have to face that reality.

Ever since he and George had realized that leprechaun gold was gone, Fred had a new respect for their dad. Sure, he was a Ministry worker too, but it was a job he actually loved. They'd fought about it sometimes — dad and mum, when they thought all the kids were asleep. Mum wanted him to go for a promotion, but dad refused — and mum eventually agreed with him the way she always did. Mum might be the louder parent, but Fred had learned in his 16 years that Arthur Weasley's silence was deafening. If he felt strongly about something, he got his way — full stop.

He stuck to his guns, stuck to his passions, even when everyone called him mental. Fred would be lucky to grow up to be like his dad — Merlin knows his dad was the only one to ever give Fred and George any sort of encouragement, the only one who ever actually listened to them.

But Percy and Ron? No, they were ashamed of being Weasleys, ashamed of what they had. Fred Weasley didn't feel a lot of shame himself, but the way his brothers acted? That was embarrassing.

"What do you think?" George prompted again, searching his brother's eyes. Their letter sounded idiotic, and Bagman wasn't going to just send them money because they asked very nicely.

"I don't think we should just be pretending it was a mistake that he gave us leprechaun gold — we said that in our last one and he completely ignored us."

"So what are we supposed to do — call him a disgusting thief?"

"A disgusting thief who should give us our money back," Fred grumbled, as the portrait hole opened and Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom entered the common room.

Fred nearly groaned. Hermione wasn't as bad as Percy, but she had certainly inherited that stick he had lodged up his arse.

George was lecturing him on all the reasons why they couldn't outright call Bagman a crook — and Fred knew his twin was making sense — but then he caught wind of something Hermione was saying.

Ron.

Apparently, Harry was hurt because Ron didn't believe him about the Triwizard Tournament.

Fred was once again annoyed — he and George had wanted to enter their names, had wanted to win that money fair and square, but Dumbledore had made up some arbitrary age rule, which was complete bollocks in Fred's opinion. He and George could duel circles around Diggory.

"It's just a little spat," Hermione said. "Harry's too stubborn to actually talk to Ron and tell him how he feels, and Ron…," Hermione trailed off. "Well, he loves Harry, obviously, but he's always been jealous, hasn't he?"

Neville nodded. "I don't really know why though," he said. "He's got all those brothers and Ginny, and two parents, and from what Harry's said about those muggles he lives with…" Neville trailed off, shuddering.

Neville was right about that. Fred had seen them firsthand this summer when they'd picked up Harry for the Quidditch World Cup — and so had Ron. Of course, they'd already known the Dursleys were awful. They'd pried those bars off Harry's windows, had smelled the stale air in the room Harry had been locked up in. Sure, Ron hadn't crept downstairs to get Harry's trunk, hadn't seen the remnants of a poor excuse for a "bedroom" in that cupboard, but he'd seen enough. He knew.

"That's true," Hermione said. "Though if you haven't known real loss, it can sometimes be hard to understand, don't you think? So Ron just sees that Harry gets all the attention from teachers and people on the streets in Diagon Alley, that he's a Quidditch star and he's got loads of money. It must be hard."

And something in Fred snapped.

It snapped in George too because his brother scoffed, and Fred looked up, seeing the quiet, annoyed rage coursing through his brother's eyes. He knew it mirrored his own. They were identical, after all.

Does she really think you've got to have dead parents just to understand how that's a horrible thing? George asked him silently.

Well, she hasn't got dead parents and she seems to get it, doesn't she? She's just making dumb excuses for our dolt of a brother.

No, Fred, our poor dolt of a brother — you're forgetting how poor the Weasleys are.

Ah yes. Because we definitely didn't just have 37 galleons, fifteen sickles and three knuts stolen from us by some dodgy Ministry swine. Why, poor people can't have seen even one galleon, let alone 37.

"What?" Hermione asked. They turned to her.

"It's a bit annoying," Fred said, "always having to hear about the poor destitute Weasleys."

They weren't destitute. He and George might not have a knut to their name thanks to their own stupidity, but the family? Far from it.

George shook his head, and joined Neville and Hermione. Fred followed, shoving the letter to Bagman in his pocket — no need for Hermione to see that.

"I didn't mean—" Hermione stammered, her face flushing pink, and Fred almost felt bad for her. It wasn't her fault Ron whinged to her and Harry so much that she actually believed his dramatics.

"We know you didn't," George said in a placating manner. He'd always been more tactful than Fred. Course, that wasn't saying much.

"Look, we know we don't have as much money as the Malfoys," George began.

"Who does?" Fred interjected.

"And we love our siblings dearly—"

"Except Percy," Fred interjected again. Stupid, annoying, probably-right-about-Bagman Percy.

"But the way Ron's always going on about how everything at our house is rubbish is a bit much, don't you think?"

Hermione and Neville glanced at each other, and for once, Hermione Granger appeared to be speechless.

Normally, Fred kept quiet about these things. When he and George had gotten to Hogwarts, it had become clear very quickly that it didn't matter if they had secondhand robes. They were funny and smart, and by second year, they were on the quidditch team. But even before that, they'd made friends — and not because they had the newest things, but because they were likable. Only gits cared about the amount of money you spent on your things.

And Fred honestly didn't understand why Ron didn't feel the same. He'd gone after that stone with Harry, he'd gone down into the Chamber of Secrets with him to save Ginny, he'd almost been eaten by the world's nicest werewolf — Ron had a brilliant reputation in this school and it had nothing to do with money.

Fred Weasley wasn't a person who felt jealousy often, but Ron had been on some unbelievable adventures. If Fred were ever to be jealous of anything...

But old robes? That's what mattered to Ron?

"We might not have gold-plated toilets," Fred said, "but we get three meals a day, we go to Quidditch matches, we go on holidays; For Merlin's sake, Ron's got a stack of comic books sitting in his room and more Chudley Cannons paraphernalia than he knows what to do with."

Maybe if Ron hadn't wasted all of his pocket money on that rubbish, he could've had life savings to throw away, too, Fred thought savagely.

Oh, he knew he was taking out a bit of his anger at himself on Ron — after being so careful for so many years, how had he and George been so stupid with their money? — but he was beyond caring.

George, it seemed, was more annoyed on Harry's behalf.

"Does Harry have any of that?" George asked pointedly.

His twin always had been his better half. Here Fred was, bitter about Ron's phony money problems when Fred and George had real ones, and George was more outraged for Harry. Harry, who had truly had a terrible childhood but never once complained. Harry, who had saved their sister's life. Harry, who once again had half the school hating him, only now he didn't have his best mate to watch his back.

Well, now Fred had one more thing to be mad about, too.

Neville Longbottom — whom Fred had never pegged as some brilliant mind — looked thunderstruck. "Is it really that awful at his house? I know he said it was bad but… well, Harry doesn't really say much, does he?"

That was an understatement. It was one of the qualities Fred liked best about Harry — he didn't whinge about anything, even when he probably should.

"I'm not saying Ron's right," Hermione said. "Just that I can understand where he's coming from. Obviously, I wish he'd handled this differently, but that didn't happen."

Fred looked at his brother, whose eyes were grim. He knew what George was thinking: Only an idiot would look at Harry's past and not realize how good they had it.

"You think that even after the cat flap?" Fred spat, not even thinking about what he was saying.

Hermione's brow furrowed. "What cat flap?"

Oh, bollocks.

Fred looked to his brother, not sure what to do. He had been certain Hermione knew. Ron and Harry seemed to tell her everything.

"What cat flap?" she demanded.

George shook his head slowly — obviously this was one thing Harry didn't want her to know.

But Hermione wasn't convinced by that particular argument, pointing out she'd badger Harry or Ron into telling her the truth. In that moment, Fred thought she looked exactly like his mum — and then, horrifyingly, her imperious stare began to remind him of Professor McGonagall.

It was a dreadful combination.

Oh, sod it. Fred and George had told their parents about what they'd seen, but nothing had come of it. Harry might not want help, but he'd saved their sister's life. When Hermione Granger wanted something, she was as determined as a demented niffler — maybe she'd be able to do Harry some good. After what he did for Ginny, all of the Weasleys owed him that.

And so they told her.

He and George were helpless to get their money back until they came face to face with Bagman (he'd have to show up to the tasks at least), they couldn't fix their broken business plans, and they couldn't shake any sense into their barmy brothers — but helping Harry? At least they could do that.