Harry sat at the kitchen table in the headquarters and glanced at his watch. It was nearly six in the morning, the time he had asked Draco to meet him. George had been worried about the spy, and now Harry was too. The last time he had seen him, Draco hadn't looked well at all, and now, with no contact since the raid, well, he wanted to make sure he was alright.

The front door opened, and Harry looked up, tracking the sound of footsteps as they made their way down the hallway and to the kitchen door. But when the door opened, it wasn't Draco. Harry's stomach plummeted.

"Snape? Has something happened to Draco?" he asked, rising from his seat. The look he was given was one of disdain, but the auror ignored it.

"Sit down, Potter. Draco is fine." He swept across the room and stood before the table across from the boy. "He is sleeping."

"Sleeping?" Sleeping? Draco missed a meeting so he could sleep in? That didn't sound like him. "What happened?"

"He has been overworked of late and has fallen ill. And after the Dark Lord's displeasure over the fall of Domus Devereor-." Snape faltered in his words, something Harry had only seen on rare occasions. "He was found in his apartment four days ago, unconscious."

"Is he okay?"

"I just told you, he is fine. He is on bedrest at the moment, which is why I am here and he is not."

Despite Snape's nonchalance about the whole thing, Harry could see that the man was worried as well. His emotions were always so well-hidden, except where Draco was involved. Though he tried to hide it, whenever the younger spy's health or safety came into question, Snape became just a little rankled.

"Did you need something?" Snape asked at last, pulling Harry from his thoughts.

"Huh?"

"Always so eloquent, Potter," he said with a smirk. "Why did you summon Draco?"

"Oh. Yeah. George asked about him last night. I promised I would make sure he was okay."

"And he is." Snape flicked at a piece of lint on his cloak, and Harry knew a question was coming. He only ever feigned boredom or disregard like this when he was about to ask about someone. "And how is George Weasley? Draco was quite worried he would not survive."

"He woke up yesterday- knew what was going on around him. He'll be in the hospital for a few weeks, but he'll live."

"Draco will be pleased to hear that. What of his injuries?"

"Mostly healed or healing. The only problem they're having is with his legs. He'll have trouble walking for a while, but the healers think they might be able to help him."

"Draco was worried about spell damage."

Harry couldn't hide his smirk as he wondered if Draco was the only one with an interest in George's recovery. Afterall, it was Snape's potions that had saved his life.

"He's stuttering pretty badly. The healers said there's some injury to his nervous system, and that's what's causing it, but with some therapy, it can be minimized. That's all we've seen since he woke up."

"No seizures? Blackouts? Shaking of the hands?"

"He had a seizure the first night, but nothing since then. Like I said, he hasn't been awake very long, and the staff is watching him very carefully." The spy nodded. "Look, Snape, I know George and the rest of the family wanted to thank Draco for what he did."

"I will pass on the message."

"And me too," Harry added. "I know he was risking his life with this one." Snape nodded again. "And tell him to get better."

"Are you finished?"

"Yeah. I guess I am."

Sleep brought no comfort. Sleep brought dreams of places he would never see again and comforts he would never feel. Sleep brought memories from which he could not wake up. Sleep, the arbiter of reality and fantasy, merely supplied the mind with images which were as torturous as waking.

Unconsciousness, the lack of all but most essential function, was an oasis in his brain, a mirage of safety, which fought off memory, seconded only to death itself to put an end to pain. But this lack of memory does nothing to remind why life is important. It is the contradiction between living and life, between breathing and surviving.

How does one define survival? Is it in continuing to function? Is it in fighting not to die? Is it in moving past the nightmares and the memories?

Do you survive in forgetting what had been your whole world for- how long?

Do you ignore the tremors? The scars? The sound of your own voice?

Is this survival?

Is this all that would be left? Trying to forget?

Is this life?

By eight o'clock in the morning, Fred was back at the hospital. He knew his brother had not been sleeping well since he had awakened three days ago, as was evidenced by the dark circles around his eyes, but yesterday, Healer Parsons had finally threatened to force the dreamless sleep potion down George's throat. He, predictably, relented and took the potion, Fred had no doubt his brother would still be asleep when he entered.

He was surprised to find George staring up at the ceiling with a faraway look on his face. Fred took his seat next to his twin's bed and watched him carefully, curious both what he was thinking and when he would notice he was no longer alone in the room. George remained still for several minutes, his only movement was a shifting of his eyes back and forth, as though some scene in his memory was playing itself out before his eyes. It was when his breathing increased and his face screwed up as though he might panic that Fred reached out and touched his shoulder.

Startled by the unexpected contact, George's eyes widened and slowly shifted to his brother, staring at him for a moment before recognition set in.

"F-F-F-." His eyes closed in frustration.

"You okay?"

George merely nodded his answer, keeping his eyes closed.

"You sure? You were pretty intense there for a while."

He didn't answer, just sat in silence, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Finally, he again looked at him.

"W-what d-d-day i-s it?"

"Thursday."

George shook his head.

"D-d-date."

"June 23rd."

His face remained strangely blank as he absorbed the information. Fred knew exactly what he was thinking. This was the first time Fred had asked any questions about how long he had been captive, and at this moment, he was realizing just how long ten months was.

"George?"

"I-I'm f-fine."

Fred's smile was a thin one. He knew George wasn't fine, but he wasn't going to talk about it. He had grown obstinate in his refusal to talk about the things that were bothering him, instead falling silent for long periods, despite everyone around him. Sighing mentally, Fred wondered where his brother had gone.

For the next week, the attention of the Order slowly returned to Voldemort and the Death Eaters. The Dark Lord had remained strangely quiet since the attack in Domus Devereor, which only worried Harry all the more. The media had touted the attack as a windfall for the Ministry, and Scrimgeour was praised for his military prowess.

No one who was actually involved in the planning said otherwise.

News too of the seven rescued prisoners spread, despite a Ministry request that they and their families be left alone. Their names were listed in the article with some background on their lives and disappearance. A few, including George, even ran with pictures of them in the hospital, obviously taken from outside the window of the hospital. The shades remained drawn after that.

Fred wasn't seen at the headquarters in that time. All of his time was spent at the hospital with his brother or, on the rare occasion that he had been kicked out, at the rebuilt shop helping out the small staff he had employed. It was Ron and Bill who brought the news that George was finally able to sit up or that his color had returned or that he had somehow managed to slip out of bed and make it a few steps from his bed before collapsing from the pain in his leg and being berated by an angry nurse who had come by to check on him.

And while everyone had visited him fairly regularly, they were beginning to find him growing more and more silent, despite their best efforts to keep him out of his memories. Fred was redoubling his efforts, as were his siblings, but eventually, other tasks were calling their attention.

Thus, it was nearly a week and a half after they had begun that Hermione and Bill were once again huddled over the stack of scrolls they had attempted to translate the night of the raid. They had managed to make it no farther than they had before, and as Chris entered the kitchen that evening for the meeting, a significant look from Hermione told Bill that she was still focused on getting Maggie to help.

Harry was just entering the headquarters when he heard the conversation through the kitchen door.

"I don't want her involved in this!"

"She's the only one that can help us, Chris! She speaks more dead languages than anyone I know!"

That was quite a compliment coming from Hermione, Harry thought, and he wondered who she was talking about,

"I don't want her in the Order. It's hard enough protecting her without putting her on the front lines."

"Chris, she wants to be involved! When I talked to her-."

"You already talked to her about this? Damn it, Granger! Why can't you mind your own business?"

It was here that Harry pushed the door open and found Chris and Hermione facing off and Bill standing off to the side, watching idly, as though watching a tennis match.

"What's going on, guys?" Harry asked, hoping to bring a little levity to the room.

"What's going on is that Granger here saw fit to talk to Maggie about the Order without talking to anyone else first!" Harry was amazed at how red Chris's face had gone. He'd never seen him so angry.

"Hermione, is this true?"

"No! Not exactly." She turned to Harry. "We didn't talk about the Order itself. It was more general, like what we could do in this war. And Maggie obviously wants to help."

"Help with what exactly?" Harry asked.

"With these," Bill finally spoke up, lifting a scroll into the air so Harry could see. "One of the languages on here is one neither Hermione nor I know. But Maggie Alden does."

"Chris?"

"I don't want my sister involved in this war. I promised my mother I would protect her."

"She's already involved," Hermione pointed out, "because you're involved. Why should you be allowed to help and she's not?"

"My family is none of your business."

Harry couldn't help the look of surprise that crossed his face at Chris's tone.

Bill, however, seemed to understand exactly what was going on here.

"He doesn't want her to end up like George," he said calmly, shifting his gaze to hold the auror's eyes. "Or worse yet, Charlie or my parents or any of the other people who've died."

Chris's eyes were suddenly on the floor, unable to meet those of Bill Weasley.

"Is it so wrong of me to want to protect my sister?"

"No." Bill's voice was low, as though he too was thinking of all the people he wanted to protect. "But Draco is confident that You-Know-Who's plans are in these scrolls, and if we can decode them, we may have a way to stop him, but we need Maggie's help. It may put her on the line with us, but she could save the lives of millions."

Chris Alden was defeated. Harry could see it in the way his shoulders slumped slightly and his fists fell limp.

"Fine. But I'll be the one to talk to her. I want to make sure she understands exactly what she's getting into."

"Agreed."

Ginny huffed yet again at not being able to see George's face. She wasn't used to not being able to see the twin's face, or any of her brothers, and hated it especially now as it made reading his moods even more difficult- if that was possible, considering how changed he was. Perhaps if he weren't able to hide behind that damned hair, he would actually look at his siblings when he spoke, if he spoke.

"George, let me cut your hair!" she blurted out, reaching for her purse. She wouldn't use her wand. She'd already seen his reaction at having a wand pointed anywhere in his direction when Ron had attempted to show him the effects of an experiment gone wrong by one of his students. George had nearly jumped from the bed in surprise and fright. It had taken nearly twenty minutes of profuse apologies and slow breathing to calm him again.

"M-My h-hair?" He reached up, hesitantly touching his shoulder-length locks, as though just realizing how long they were. Ginny realized she was holding her breath when she glanced at Fred and found that he too was watching George. Then, his hand fell into his lap. "O-k-kay."

Ginny smiled and dug through the bag, at last finding what she needed at the bottom. She slid off the sheath and held the scissors in triumph. This would mark the first time any of her brothers had willingly allowed her to cut their hair.

"How short do you want to go?" she asked, moving closer to the bed.

"Not t-too-." He never finished the sentence. After a few seconds, Ginny realized that George wasn't merely slow in speaking, thinking out each word to minimize his stutter. No, he was completely frozen, transfixed on the scissors she held while one hand slowly crept up to touch the bandage on his neck.

'Oh Merlin, was that how-?' The thought disappeared as Fred's hand closed over the twin blades.

"Put them away," he hissed.

Ginny's eyes darted from his angry visage to George's wide eyes, then down to the scissors. Quickly, she turned to stuff them back into her purse, but a weak voice stopped her.

"No, Gin-ny." George clenched his hand and dropped it into his lap. "P-pl-lease. My h-hair."

Either Fred had developed a twitch lately, or he was subtly telling her no, but Ginny ignored him.

"Are you sure, George? It looks kind of cool long."

"Cc-ut it."

Steadfastly ignoring Fred's gaze, she moved toward George, and though he could not see her (his eyes were clenched tightly shut), he still flinched when she touched his arm. It hurt her to see it- to have anyone she loved scared of her like this- twisted her heart.

"How short?" she asked, not realizing how hollow her voice sounded.

A shaking hand wound its way up and gripped the long hair where it fell to his shoulders. His indicator still left his hair longer than he used to wear it, but Ginny realized why. As she slowly began cutting away, she tried to style it in such a way as to hide his scars as much as possible. Nothing could hide the one's on his chin and near the corner of his mouth, but slightly long bangs pushed to the side would camouflage the rather long scar that cut through his right eyebrow and nearly to his ear.

The back was just to be trimmed. Though she would have liked to have cut it shorter, to Fred's length for old time's sake, George did not want all the length taken off. Though he had difficulty getting the words out, he placed his hand across the back of his neck, covering his spine. Ginny understood. While it was useless as a protection, the feel of something covering the back of his neck provided him with some comfort that would not come with total exposure.

Finished, Ginny stepped back and admired her work. It was a little uneven, but then she didn't have the practice her mother had, but all in all, it didn't look too bad. George, raised a hand to his hair, feeling where it had been clipped, then raised his eyes to his siblings.

"You look good," Fred said, the first to speak in several minutes. "No one will have an excuse for confusing us now." He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes, Ginny noticed. She glanced from him to George, seeing the distance that spanned farther than the room allowed.

"Do you want to see?" she asked, but her hand had already slid back into her purse for a small mirror which she held out.

George took the looking glass with a slightly trembling hand, then with a steadying breath, looked into it. He didn't move it from side to side as one would expect when someone was trying to see a new haircut. Instead, he merely gazed into it, looking at his own face.

It was the first time, Ginny realized, he had seen himself since he had been captured. He said nothing for a long time, as had become a habit of his, but Ginny and Fred glanced at each other, uncomfortable.

"George, are you okay?" she asked, hesitant to touch him for fear of startling him again.

"Yeah," he answered. "It's j-jus-t b-been a wh-while."

Hesitantly, she laid her hand on his shoulder, and though he didn't flinch away from her, she could feel him tense. Slowly, she sat down on the edge of the bed facing him and swept his bangs to the side again, then slid her fingers under his chin to raise his gaze to her.

"You are okay," she told him. "You're safe."

He looked so unsure meeting her gaze. The uncertainty was just wrong on either of the twins, but on George, who was always the one smiling and reassuring others (granted, with a healthy amount of teasing), it was disheartening.

"George?"

He didn't answer. Ginny wrapped her arms around him and held him close, rocking him gently when he dropped his forehead to her shoulder. He wasn't crying. She knew that instinctively, but there was so much pent up inside of him, she simply held him while it all swept over him.

What else could she do?