A/N: Here I am again, with another chapter. Ah, and if you're indie-inclined and would like a new band to drool over, I highly recommend Soltero ). They're out of Boston, I do believe, and quite good. "Nella Madeline", the first song of theirs I ever heard, is often my inspiration for writing. It suits my mood. 3 If anyone loves them enough to buy the CD, burn me a copy! Haha, I'm kidding, but if you did that would be cooler than a billion and one cool things. And, also, there is chicken stuck in my teeth and I'm having difficulty getting it out because I had wings for dinner about ten minutes ago, while I pretended to do English homework. Isn't that fascinating? But I know what you really want—twincest! So, onward we go! (But don't give up on me if my pacing is a little slower than most fanfics. ; I'm a writer, I can't help it.)

Chapter Two: This Strange Ailment

It was two weeks after they settled into their last year of school when it happened. Fred sat alone in the common room, tinkering around with something that he was sure would explode most satisfactorily if only he could get the mixture right. Papers covered with mathematical equations scrawled in his sloppy handwriting were strewn about the overstuffed chair that he occupied. Contrary to what most people believed about the twins, the marvels that they created did not just appear, bam-boom. It required long hours of patience and fairly complex math and spell research—Mrs. Weasley always despaired of telling them that if only they would put forth even half as much effort into studying for their exams, they would be just fine. The last time she had said it, Fred and George had stared at her in unison and informed her without a trace of impudence that they were only good at it because they loved making things so. She shook her head and left them to their work, and the boys never heard of it again.

He had almost finished when George and Lee came in. Lee looked enormously proud of George, whereas George looked green around the gills in addition to something that Fred could not identify. This was troubling. As was the half-unbuttoned shirt George wore this Sunday, which revealed collarbone and smooth expansion of chest. Not enough to get himself in any trouble over it, just enough to tease and frustrate. Fred looked away.

"Hello, Fred," Lee said, settling in on a nearby chair, being careful not to disturb any of Fred's papers. "You should be enormously proud of your brother." Fred raised a copper brow.

"Should I?" He turned around to look at George. "Since when do you do anything deserving of pride?" George snorted, the strange expression from a moment ago gone, and Fred almost relaxed when it quickly returned. Seeing that his brother would remain mute on his "accomplishment", whatever it may be, he turned back to Lee. "So, what did Georgie-Porgie here do?" Lee cast a wicked grin in George's direction. Had Fred been looking at George and not Lee, he would have seen the panicked, begging expression on George's freckled face. Had he wanted to, so would Lee. Neither did.

"He only made out with and is now the boyfriend of one very, very gorgeous Allison McCallister."

Fred's heart stopped beating. (NONONONONONONONONO…!) A sick feeling rose in his stomach, and looked at Lee. "What?" He kept his voice as normal as possible, but some of his horror leaked through. Lee misread this and assured him that he would get a girlfriend soon. (NONONONONONONONONONONONONONO…!) "George?" (PLEASE, PLEASE GEORGE, SAY HE'S WRONG! SAY IT!) George said nothing, but he nodded. Fred was caught between hysterical laughter, tears, and sickness. He chose instead to stand up, scattering things everywhere, and making a quick, unexplained exit. Fred was fairly certain he had left his heart behind, on that chair, in that place in the past where his brother did not have a girlfriend. (Or had George given it to Allison, wrapped up in a box?) The fantasy was strong enough for Fred to conclude that he had. She would wear it as a broach, and Fred would slowly die as she only grew more… more… More whatever George saw.

"Fred?" Lee said in bewilderment. "Fred, where—"

Fred never heard. He was away, through the halls that he barely saw, up the stairs that shifted between his feet as he moved, onto a new flight that caught him as he fell from the old one. The journey was blurred, indistinct. He was sure he heard people say his name, but he couldn't remember what that name was. Was he Fred? He didn't want to be. Fred was a sickened creature that they had forgotten to cull from the litter, and now didn't have the heart to.

He must have taken a turn he had never taken before, or a perhaps a new way opened for him as they were apt to do, for he ended up somewhere new. It was the flat roof of one of the towers. From where he was, he did not know which one. He cared very little, anyway. Stone wall rose up around him, with space for an archer's bow left from the days when the castle was newborn and headstrong, protecting those within both with and without magical aide. It was against this that Fred rested his back. The autumnal blue of the sky had been replaced by a chilly grey that signaled the coming of rain, and of winter. He could see the butts of cigarettes and empty cans of beer scattered here and there, and by these he knew that he was not the only one to seek this place as refuge. (Had he sought it? Or had it sought him, feeling the tug of his stormy heart?) Absently Fred wondered if the others who had come before him and who would come long after had felt the way he did, sick at heart to the point of death, or just a wish for it. Or had they come in an entirely different mood? Had they and would they come to celebrate, perhaps the passing of some far away exam? The alcohol would suggest so, but the place did not have the feel of one of celebration. There was something somber about this lonely tower rooftop, something that permeated the very stone it was made of. Even if they had intended to celebrate, he concluded after a moment, in the end they would remember something (our time is at an end here, what are we to do?) that would drain them of their exaltation.

Fred's pale, cold fingers skittered about the stone and found a mostly-untouched cigarette. He did not smoke, but then again, he also did not care if his brother had a girlfriend, right? Fred lit it and took a long drag, coughing but not caring. He let it dangle carelessly between his fingertips as if he had been smoking for years, a habit picked up from a few of his friends. The smoke he exhaled from his lungs through his mouth and nose swirled up to mingle with the grey air around him.

What was he doing? This was ridiculous, running up here and even going as far as to take up smoking just because his brother had a girlfriend. He should be happy, shouldn't he? Or at the least, jealous of George. He did feel jealousy, but of whom he was not sure. Fred knew Allison, or at least knew of her. She was a Ravenclaw, black haired with dark, bewitching eyes and a figure to make every girl in her House hate her. (Ravenclaw women were infamous for not only having deadly wits, but bodies to match. Even the obsessively preening Slytherins could not compete, and it got quite competitive.) Her pants were also easy, and if Fred knew George (which he wasn't quite sure he did anymore), George would waste no time. Fred clutched his shirt, his chest feeling tight. His hands… and his lips… He would touch her… Going deep inside… Fred felt sick. He wanted to cry, but despite the fact that he knew he was alone and no one would hear, he could not. Fred put the cigarette to his lips and took another drag.

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A/N: So? How was it? I know, this chapter is so weirdly different from the first one, it feels almost entirely disconnected. But I like the way this one is written much better. A word for the wary: I do NOT plan on giving these boys an easy time. They'll have to earn their happiness. So, for all those of you who can't stand to see them fight, or cry, or do stupid things you just know they'll regret (like all human beings in love do), then go read something with less content. This is going to be long, and complicated, and full of heartache. Because I can. I love you all, though, so I'd prefer if you stayed. . R&R, and I'll get to work on chapter three very soon! (Also, isn't the image of Fred smoking on a tower rooftop with a broken heart sexy? I don't know, I think smokers have a lot of visual appeal, especially heartbroken ones because it makes them that much more tragic. Try to picture this in a kind of grey wash—I'm an artist, and you'll love it more if you listen to music like "Nella Madeline" and picture what I'm saying. 3)