AN: I've been super busy with all those things listed with the last chapter, especially my Master's program. With teaching and this, it's like having 2 full-time jobs. I still have another year left, so like I said before, updates will be few and far between for a while. Sorry about it, but real life has to take precedence.

Slowly, Fred became aware that he was not asleep anymore, though his eyes were still closed. He didn't want to open them. He was still so tired and wanted to go back to sleep, and he knew that if he opened them fully, that would never happen.

So he lay there, in the darkness behind his eyelids, trying to shut his brain down from trying to figure out what had woken him up.

Maybe something from an unremembered dream?

He shifted, rolling to his side and pulled his blanket tighter around himself.

A muffled whimper.

Did Crookshanks kill something?

No, his mind told him. Crookshanks wasn't even here. There was no one here but him and-

A second whimper, this one more desperate than the first.

Fred reached out and held open the curtains of his bed just enough to confirm where the sound was coming from, but there was no whimper this time. It was a cry, low and soft, but still pained and alone.

He stumbled out of bed, nearly tangling in the curtains in his haste to reach his brother's side.

In the dim light of the low-burning candle on the side table, shadows danced over George's face, contorted by pain and terror. His bed clothes were twisted around his body, evidence of his nightmare-induced thrashing, revealing the old scars and injuries he was always so careful to keep concealed (Fred's eyes took in the wide scar peeking out on his clavicle, the burn across his side.), while his hands clawed their way into the heavy blankets pushed down near his hips.

He was frozen, unsure what to do, exactly.

Another cry, this one louder, echoing in the silence of the gloom.

This time he did act, reaching forward and shaking George's shoulder, but the reaction was not what he had expected. George's eyes snapped open and he flew across the mattress, as though trying to shove himself as far away from Fred as possible. Instinctively, Fred's hand tightened on George's pajamas, trying to stop him from flying off the edge of the bed, but this only seemed to worsen the situation. Hands flew at him, and a cry that would probably wake Harry a floor up tore through his throat as George struggled to get away, finally flinging himself off the bed, tumbling the bedside table over with a mighty crash.

"George!" Fred flew across the bed and found him on the floor, clutching at his pajamas and breathing heavily. He reached out to his brother.

"Don't touch me!" The voice was low, gutteral, almost animalistic in its ferocity.

"George?" Fred whispered it this time, his hand frozen in air, not quite reaching out, but not completely pulled back either.

Silence, but for George's breathing.

Then the door flew open, and a dangerous figure swept the room with his wand before cold green eyes focused on Fred, then George. The wand lowered; a hand adjusted the round glasses on his nose.

"You guys okay?" Harry's voice was gravelly, as though he had just woken up. He wore his boxer shorts and a ratty T, and his hair stuck out completely on one side. Not quite the forbidding figure he had cut a moment ago when his aura was in danger mode.

"I don't know," Fred answered truthfully. "George?"

He whispered something as he pulled himself upright, slowly lifting himself so his back leaned against the bed, though whatever meaning those words may have held were lost.

"George, you okay?" Harry repeated, his voice a little gruffer than Fred's had been, practically ordering an answer which was understandable.

"I'm fine."

Fred doubted that very much and, meeting Harry's questioning gaze, shrugged and shook his head. He watched as Harry's gaze slid back to George, sharp and observant, then soft and sad. The room was silent. Fred and Harry simply watched George, who still had not yet looked up at them. Instead, he was staring resolutely at the floor, one hand tightly gripping his hair while the other still rubbed absently above his knee.

"Fred?" Harry's voice startled him. "Would you mind putting on some water for tea?"

"Huh?"

"Tea, Fred," Harry said quietly. "Please?"

Fred shifted is attention back to his brother.

"George, you want some tea?"

Fred didn't think he was going to answer, then very slowly, he nodded without lifting his eyes from the floor.

"Yeah. Okay, I'll make some tea." He backed out of the room, completely aware that whatever was going on in George's head, he wasn't the one needed. He never seemed to be, though he didn't understand why.

How could things change so much over the course of a year? In truth, Fred knew, logically, that this distance was inevitable, considering what George had been through.

But why is it that everyone but him knew how to talk to George?

Fred was downstairs for twenty minutes, and the tea was cooling in cups on the table when he decided enough time had passed for him to venture back upstairs. He found Harry sitting on the floor next to George, and though George was still looking at the floor, he was at least speaking.

"-I thought I was going to go insane after he died, Harry. Until Draco found me, I thought I was going to lose my mind in there."

Fred stopped in his tracks. He could hear George's voice, but if he stepped in to the room, he might stop talking, and Merlin knew he needed to talk.

"What do you want me to do?"

"He had a daughter, two grandkids. I want to find them for him- to let them know he was still alive."

They both fell silent for a moment. Then, Harry spoke up, his voice so soft, Fred could barely hear him.

"George, it's quite possible they thought Rupert was dead the entire time he was in that dungeon. It could just hurt them more to know that he was alive, and going through hell, only to die alone in a little cell."

"He wasn't alone." George's voice cracked a little. "I never saw him, but he was never alone."

"I know, George. I understand that, but my concern still stands."

Again, silence punctuated the room.

"If it were me, do you think Fred would have wanted to know?"

Yes.

"I don't know."

"Yes." Fred leaned casually in the doorway, and though George didn't look up at him, Harry did. "Of course I'd want to know, George."

"Why?"

"Comfort. Closure. Just a need to know."

"Rather than believing the pain was limited by death, you would want to hear that someone had really been in prison, in the… worst conditions… and died like that?"

"I would," Fred answered, recognizing the distance George was suddenly putting between himself and the scenario. "What right would I have to live in that delusion of peace, just to make myself feel better? Why shouldn't I at least understand what that person went through?"

A chill seemed to run down George's spine. Then, he turned toward Fred, and from Harry's face, this was the first time he's made eye contact with either of them that night, and smiled.

"Is the tea ready?"

"Yeah, it's downstairs."

George nodded and started the slow process of picking himself off the floor.

Over the course of the next days, George filled his days with trying to reacquaint himself to life outside of a cell or a hospital room. He read newspapers and listened to meetings, though whenever discussion strayed near his experiences, he became quieter than ever, seeming to close up within himself, trapped in the private hell that was his memories. From this, his friends tried to shield him, and were successful most of the time, though many mornings, he found himself awakened before dawn by his brother, who himself was tormented by George's screams as he dreamed.

It was for this reason that George desperately wanted to visit Diagon Alley and finally replace his lost wand. He felt helpless without it, both unable to protect himself and unable to function as a proper wizard. A wand would make him feel whole again.

But he could barely stand staying in the kitchen if members of the Order were sitting on all sides of him. His previous position in the middle of any gathering now terrified him. Generally, if everyone was meeting, he would make his way upstairs or into the library, claiming exhaustion and punctuating it by forcing a tired smile.

Fred saw through it. George knew he did, but he said nothing. He merely nodded and offered up a small smile of support. It both heartened and saddened George. Over the course of days, George had opened up to his brother a little, though he still never spoke of his experiences in detail. If he became lost in those nightmares, he would simply chalk it up to memories, and Fred accepted it, knowing what it took out of him to admit even that.

But he wondered. Fred couldn't help it. He understood why George flinched when a wand was swished a little too enthusiastically or why he cringed if Snape entered the meeting in his black robes. Those weren't hard to figure out. He could even understand why George went silent when laughter became too loud. He didn't know, but he could guess.

But why did he nearly jump out of his seat if he heard others whispering? Or his breath catch at the sight of Remus's pocketwatch? Or why, on certain mornings when he had to awaken his twin, George pushed away from him in the semi-darkness, as though terrified of a face he had known his entire life?

It was for this reason that Fred panicked a little anytime George seemed to be having any kind of reaction. It happened the very morning he had arranged to take him to replace his wand. Unable to find him in his usual haunts, the kitchen, his bedroom, or the library, Fred nearly tore the house apart looking for him. And as his panic escalated, Harry, too, joined in the hunt. Desperate, he tore into the kitchen for what seemed the dozenth time, this time intent on flooing everyone he knew to see if they had seen the missing twin. As he spun to find the Floo Powder, he spied a lone figure outside.

George stood motionless in the small, overgrown garden in the backyard, seemingly senseless to everything around him. His back was to Fred, making it impossible to tell what was going on, but the absolute stillness and the length of his disappearance made the brother uneasy.

Was this anther fit of confusion? Did George know where he was? Or was he lost again?

"Fred, wait."

He hadn't even realized his hand was on the door until Harry's voice stopped him. He glanced at him, then back to his brother to find George holding his hands out into the sun, open-fingered, as though tasting the warmth, then clench them into fists and pull them in.

"I've seen enough men come out of the darkness," Harry said softly, "only wanting to feel the sun and know it's real."

Fred smiled as he watched his brother, wondering if Harry had any idea how profound he sounded at the moment.

The kitchen door opened behind them.

"Harry? Did you find-?" Hermione's voice was coming from the Floo network, but she trailed off upon seeing the two men staring out the window. Apparently, Harry had already tried to contact Ron. "Oh, Merlin. What's wrong?"

Harry glanced motioned her through, and a moment later, she too was looking out the window.

"What's he doing?" she asked, standing next to Harry, but before either of the men could answer, her hand lightly covered her mouth and a soft "Oh," escaped.

Fred opened the door. George didn't notice him, or at least didn't acknowledge him until they were side by side. A glance revealed tears in his eyes.

"I didn't think it was possible to really forget what the sun feels like," he said in what was probably his most honest and unguarded moment since the escape. "I forgot."

Fred had no idea what to say, what to do. An unwanted touch or the wrong words would break the spell that seemed to hold his brother so lovingly and so warmly, but in this moment, Fred had been invited in. It was a place he could only vaguely understand, but it was an invitation into George's experience, however small or mundane.

He lifted his hand as he'd seen George do to try and feel it as George had.

"It's warm," he said, feeling the fool even as he did so. George was experiencing something he was not. Fred closed his eyes, trying to imagine what it had been like: the darkness, the cold.

The loneliness.

A shiver ran down his spine, and Fred clenched his hands shut as he opened his eyes.

George was watching him. The sadness had not quite left him yet.

Fred had no idea what to say. Silence permeated the air, disturbed only by the distant call of a bird.

"Harry and Hermione are here," George said finally, the spell broken. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine. Harry was going to come with us to Diagon Alley for a little while. And Hermione just stopped by before work."

He nodded.

"We should go inside," he said. "Before they think I'm crazy."

"Yeah," Fred agreed without really thinking about what he was agreeing to. His mind was still on the darkness.

The grimness returned to George's features, unnoticed by his twin. In a moment, he was gone, returning to the house.

Fred remained behind. He didn't quite want to leave this yet. It seemed there was something profound here he hadn't quite grasped, but he didn't want it to escape him. A slight breeze blew, but he remained still, his eyes closed again, trying to understand exactly what had happened here, but knowing deep down that it was impossible.

It seemed the moment had widened the gulf between them.

"Hey, Fred? You ready?"

It was Harry, who called to him from the kitchen. Unable to grasp that elusive meaning, Fred admitted defeat and headed back inside.

"Professor Weasley?"

Ron turned back to his emptying classroom to find Thomas Eliot, a third year Hufflepuff standing behind him. He was a nice kid, average and forgettable in almost every way. Truthfully, he had only made an impression after his father, an Auror, had been killed during the kid's first year. After that, he had latched onto Ron as a kind of big brother.

"Yeah, Thomas? Something wrong?"

"No, sir. I just- It's good to have you back."

Ron couldn't help but smile.

"Thanks." The boy didn't move, didn't scamper off to his classmates, so Ron waited.

"So, George Weasley, the man they found in the prison- he owns the joke shop in Diagon Alley, doesn't he?"

"Yes, with Fred, his twin."

He squirmed just a little, and Ron wished he's just get on with what he wanted to say. He needed to get to a meeting.

"I heard some people say that he's your brother, that that's why you've been gone."

"He is. George and Fred are two years older than me."

"Is he okay?"

Ron hesitated before answering. That was the big question, wasn't it? If any close friends had asked, if Minerva had wanted to know, the answer would have been vastly different, revealing much more about George (and himself) than he would ever reveal to a student, and such a young one at that.

"Yeah, Thomas. He's going to be fine."

"Good." The word came out as a held breath. "The papers said he was supposed to be dead, so I'm glad you got him back and he's okay." He looked sad and thoughtful for a moment, but before Ron could say anything, he announced he would be late for dinner and ran from the room.

Ron watched him go, wondering if the hope created from this rescue would, in fact, hurt others in the end.