Fall arrived and swept the Weasleys away for their final year at Hogwarts. It was a much needed reprieve to have the familiar nooks and crannies of the castle back, but it was not the Panacea the boys were hoping for. The more familiar they became with their feelings, the more dearly they needed to hide them. Without precisely knowing why, the kiss stolen in a secret passageway, the embrace in an empty hallway, the gentle squeeze of a hand before parting for the night; each felt so much more vulnerable than it ever had before. All the same, they adored one another's company, and fell easily into their school routine once more.

When October came, a biting chill came with it. Each student wore their house colors proudly on warm woolen neckwear, hands covered with gloves and ears covered with muffs. Fred and George had a single egregiously long scarf wrapped around both of their necks, and they were pretending this was completely normal for the entertainment of their peers. They took this act all the way to Hogsmeade, sharing the mutual buzz with all the other seventh-years for the first trip of the year. They were most looking forward to making their regular visit to Zonkos, and were quite overdue for a supply run of some of their most classic gags as well.

The shop was busy as it always was, and smelled strongly like a mix of sulfur and licorice. Despite this being their last visit as students, they found it somewhat difficult to be excited. George was turning a sugar quill about in his hands, listening to the general hubbub and trying to parse why, when Fred spoke up.

"You know, it's sort of a shame, really, he said, ducking out of their shared scarf at last, and approaching a display boasting a novel flavor of the familiar Fizzing Whizbee sweets. "All this time, and nothing's new." George gave a muted laugh. The charm on his scarf was beginning to wear off, and the end shrunk upwards like a recoiling snake. For the sake of the joke, Fred hadn't brought his own, so George removed it and approached his twin, wrapping it around his neck.

"You're not wrong," he said, "but they've still got loads of things we can use for ingredients, and that's where the real magic happens, right?"

For a moment, Fred looked at George curiously. George smiled and raised his eyebrows expectantly, but Fred didn't speak, he seemed to be considering something. George laughed a bit under his breath, and left him to it, turning to disappear into the crowd. Fred blinked and looked up after him, spotting just the back of his red hair as he slipped behind a throng of dark robes. Fred gently furrowed his eyebrows and smiled. With George safely out of view, he let the fondness he was feeling show on his face.

It was night again, and it was so alike all those which had come before it. Hushed, dim, familiar. It had been seven years. Seven years of quiet nights, where neither one of the Weasley twins could sleep. Seven years of emotions tempered by distance and refined by pressures outside of their influence. A night came when true confrontation was, at last, inevitable.

They were each so certain that the other was awake, listening for a stir in the darkness, but neither moved. George was looking back on some night (he couldn't remember when,) in which he had heard his name from across the room in barely a whisper, and had stood to meet it. The floor of the bedroom had been so cold he had been tempted to run. He could remember the sense of relief so clearly when his brother had said "sleep here tonight, Georgie."

Somebody turned in their bed and sighed. It wasn't Fred. George furrowed his eyebrows softly. He thought about how warm his brother must be after so long under the covers. He thought about the way his shoulders dipped up when he kissed his cheek too close to the ear. He thought about his eyes, his freckles, his smile, and -

George was disrupted by the sudden sting of tears.

He reached upwards and rubbed them away resentfully. Crying? Why was he crying? He turned his head noiselessly and looked in Fred's direction. He waited without gratification to hear his own name break the silence.

Get up, say goodnight, and I love you, a voice urged George quietly.

Right now? He argued back, I can't do that.

Of course you can. You've done it before. Tonight's not any different.

George grimaced and shut his eyes tightly, because tonight was different, and he didn't quite know how.

His thoughts returned to Fred. To the way he avoided eye contact when he was uncomfortable. The way he fell totally silent. The way he was quick to cry. His heart thumped painfully. Tears again.

What's wrong with me? He thought bitterly, almost saying the words out loud.

You'll feel better if you just tell him. Just once, before bed, came the voice.

I can't.

George's chest trembled with the effort it took to make no noise as fresh hot tears spilled down his cheeks. His frustration with himself grew.

Why can't you? The voice insisted distantly.

George's stomach convulsed as the answer became so alarmingly, painfully obvious.

I'm in love with him.

George stopped breathing.

He'll hear it in my voice. He'll know. I'm in love with him.

George felt suddenly like his bed was an ocean, and he was drowning in it. He wept, shoulders heaving, and failed to restrain the sound that came with it. A hushed lamenting choke broke aloud against the darkness, and George's gut rolled for a second time. He couldn't be heard. He couldn't explain this. He tossed his blankets aside and his bare feet hit the unbearably cold stone floor. This time, he did run. Not bothering to dress, George fled the dormitory.

He didn't wait to see if he had been heard. He didn't pause to look over his shoulder. He left the Gryffindor common room with no goal, and no direction. He ignored the stairs which had shifted in the night and stayed there on the seventh floor, taking the twisting corridors wherever they might deposit him. His exposed feet grew numb from the cold, and his cheeks frigid where the air dried his tears. He entered a long, black hallway which was just distant and private enough to compel him to pause.

What am I doing? He asked himself. He began to pace. How can I talk to him? He turned on his heel. What would I even say? He stopped.

George's features pulled into a quizzical stare. The stone wall near the mouth of the hallway had manifested a door, where before there had been none. There had been none, hadn't there? It was dark, and George was frantic, wasn't it possible he had just missed it the first time? Yet, it was there and it called to him. The handle gleamed unnaturally silver in the gloom, and George grasped it and pulled it open. It somehow felt as if the answers to his questions were on the other side.

The door opened to a wide room with a high ceiling, totally empty save for a grand mirror standing resolutely at the very end. Columns of moonlight pierced the hall from windows placed quite impossibly in rows on either wall. George looked once behind himself, confirming the contradiction in geometry, (knowing very well that he was in the heart of the castle,) and entered nevertheless. The door shut with a slow soft creak behind him, and he blinked the bitterness from his eyes.

He stepped forward very lightly, until the inscription above the mirror became obvious.

erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi

George blinked in surprise. He knew what this was, at least, he knew its function. Something he had heard many stories of in his younger days at the castle, something he had hoped Fred and him might find during one of their many adventures. When they, who knew more of the castles secrets than any student of their year or otherwise, did not find it; he believed that it was nothing more than a fanciful story. Nonetheless, here it was. The Mirror of Erised. His heart pounding heavily, he wondered if the power of the mirror was real as well. He approached it, watching his figure come into view. He stood, breath hung with anticipation, but the image did not shift. He saw only himself. Did this mirror not show you your heart's greatest desire? He took a few steps forward, and his brow folded in concern. His reflection did not mimic him.

He hesitated and his eyes flickered up to his own face. He saw red hair, freckles, brown eyes, a face crinkling with mischief and love. His heart fluttered. It was Fred. He knew beyond any doubt that he was looking at the face of his own brother. He grew closer and lifted his hands up to the cool glass surface, and felt incredibly young and inexcusably weak. Time stopped, and the only thing which existed was himself and this mirror.

"Oh," he said faintly, "Freddie."

The young man in the mirror mouthed his name back, and George could swear that he could hear it.

"I love you," whispered George, just to hear it once out loud. The expression of his mirror image melted with affection and acceptance.

"I don't think I'll ever love anyone else," George continued. "It's always been you." The image of Fred drew closer, as if it wanted to hear more. "I love how foolhardy you are, I love how loudly you laugh. I love how stubborn you get when you're scared, I love easily you get overwhelmed. I always want to be with you."

George leaned until his forehead was just touching the silver of the mirror, and it was soothingly cool against his hot face. He closed his eyes and released it for a final time, praying that catharsis would come with it.

"I love you," he said.

"I..." Came the voice, thick with uncertainty behind him. George wheeled around to see his brother, his genuine brother, standing in the hall behind him. He was crested perfectly by the moonlight, the door still hanging open. He looked somehow so small against the high frame of the room. It was evident by the expression which he wore that he had heard everything. He opened his mouth to speak.

"I love you too, Georgie."

There it was.

George's blood ran cold, and then hot immediately after. He heard it. He heard the telling tremble, the surrendering helplessness of those words. He heard the very truth that he himself had been protecting for so long. He felt a weakness in his knees and a jubilation that made him want to jump at the same time. Fred took a few shaky steps forward and said it again.

"I love you George," he said, his voice warm and vulnerable. "I've always loved you."

George abandoned the mirror and flew to his brother. They collided with a force that was almost too much for either to stay standing on jellied limbs. They loosened the embrace only enough to kiss, and it was achingly reverent. George felt every little movement of his brother's body as if they were the only things which existed on the planet earth, and Fred felt as if George were the force which turned it. They then fell completely into one another, leaning heavily, crying without tears. It became a laugh almost immediately, light-hearted and unburdened. The sound was interrupted by a kiss. In Fred's mind, the path forward became obvious. If they could have this, they could have anything. It seemed all so clear, and the past so petty.

"I don't want to run anymore, George," said Fred hoarsely. "No matter what we do, or what paths we take, I'm always going to be in love with you."

Although it was no longer a revelation, the purity of the statement hit George like a Bludger, and he put his face entirely on his twin's shoulder and gave a subdued, trembling chuckle.

"We're always going to be in love with each other," he contributed, almost too lightly for Fred to hear.

"I think we've ridden this broomstick as far as it needs to take us, George."

George looked up, not gathering his meaning. He saw that Fred's expression had grown confident, daring even, and his stomach wriggled with butterflies.

"Yeah, mate?" he encouraged.

"Let's get out of here, Georgie. Let's give them a final show and let's just go."

"Just go?" George repeated, his voice turning giddy and incredulous.

"Yes!" Fred exclaimed, taking George's face with both hands and kissing him on the forehead, on the nose, and finally on the mouth. His excitement was becoming palpable. "Let's go and start something of our own! Our own shop, our own jokes, George. Breathe some life into the entire wizarding world!" A tickle of delight ran about George's body and he stood up, taking his twin with him.

"Good Godric, Freddie you're right. We've got so much we could do," he said.

"And it would be ours, George. No hiding. No pretending," Fred returned, none of the passion ebbing from his voice. George wondered weakly where his brother had been hiding this. He felt a pang of sorrow for all the times they had brushed one another without connecting, for all the times they had failed to find the right words.

"That's…" George began with some difficulty. "That's all I've ever wanted, Fred. How do we make it happen?" Again, and more fervently than ever before, Fred kissed him. George's eyelashes quivered shut, and he forgot what he had even asked. Fred parted from him unhurriedly, the edges of their lips trailing together. Fred exhaled softly and George felt it against his face.

"Mate," he hummed, "Do you want to just see where this goes?"

A laugh erupted out of George. The challenges didn't matter. The galleons didn't matter. Even if they were ruined, they would be ruined together. Fred's smile was so sincere that George felt his heart could break. He learned forward and caressed his cheek, kissing the very edge of his hairline.

"I love you," he murmured, allowing every drop of feeling to enter his voice unfettered. Fred made a sound in return that was in between a whisper and a whimper. He attempted to return the words, but the emotion made him stammer. He broke into a weak laugh instead and George smiled against his twin's forehead. "I love you, Fred," he echoed, and his brother laughed harder.

George looked deliberately over his shoulder at their profile in the mirror. Just as Fred managed to return the words at last, George realized that they were reflected perfectly, exactly as they were.