(A/N):I, for one, am not satisfied with the early demise JKR gave Fred. It's just not right, you know? Fred and George…they weren't meant to be separated. So I'm here to right that wrong.

I'm reinventing. Tweaking some things. That means: in this story, Fred DOESN'T DIE. But you'll just have to read on to see what DOES happen!

This story contains TWINCEST. If you're not cool with that, I suggest you go ahead and hit the back button.

Thanks to all my lovely reviewers, ConciseComplexity, hopecraycat, ValorOrgulloso, stormsiren, Val-Creative, & Al-luvs-Kitties02! I heart you guys!

Disclaimer: JK owns it all, except this story...

2. Against All Odds

The next day dawned with a resolute brightness, the sky slowly staining a pure aquamarine blue, the sun a round blinding circle among wispy curls of clouds. George stood with his forehead pressed against the glass, his burning eyes dry and itchy from last night's endless tears, and wondered at how even during deepest tragedy the world could go on.

He took a long, scalding-hot shower, dressed in a clean set of robes, then sat debating whether to order room service or go downstairs to the café adjacent to the hotel. After weighing the pros and cons of each option he decided on the latter; it would be easier and it would help defeat the restlessness boiling in his veins.

At the restaurant counter he was greeted by a friendly middle-aged witch with chin-length brown hair and sparkling eyes.

"Hello, Mr. Weasley," she said, smiling at him. "What can I get you today?"

"Er – " George was nonplussed that she'd addressed him by name; he was quite sure he'd never seen her before in his lifetime, nor had he ever been inside this café. Perhaps the hotel and restaurant were jointly owned and she'd checked him in last night; he didn't remember much about that, concentrating as he had been on getting to his room without breaking down. Shrugging to himself, he gave the menu a quick once-over before ordering a coffee and two bagels with cream cheese. It seemed that relocation had regained him his appetite, if only for the time being.

He ate by the window, perching atop a flat, rather uncomfortable stool that faced the back of the restaurant. Eating was a tedious, mechanical process: he was doing so only to function, not because he wanted to, and therefore the food was dull and tasteless in his mouth. However, the coffee was strong and fresh, and it was welcome going down.

He caught sight of himself in the clear reflection of the window, a random, unintentional glance, and for a moment it was Fred looking back at him, his fists jammed jauntily on his hips, his eyes starred with glee and mischief, laugh in his throat. Then the moment passed and George found himself again, pale, somber, dejected. Such a contrast.

Pushing the hair out of his face, he bent to take a cautious swig of coffee, hot and burning on his tongue. His flaming silky hair was long again, enough so to cover the gaping hole where his ear had once been, making him less discernible from his twin. Had Fred been beside him it would have been impossible to differentiate between them.

That was one of the things he missed most about being an identical twin: he and Fred were the only ones who knew for certain who was who. That had changed after George had lost his ear to Snape's ill-aimed Sectumsempra curse, but he could still recall exactly how it had felt to stand before someone, dressed in the same clothes, wearing identical evil smiles across their faces, and see the confusion in that person's eyes. They had been good at what they did, oh, yes, and that was why even their family had been unable to tell for themselves which twin was which. It had been a satisfying feeling.

He brought himself back to the present by digging his fingernails sharply into his palms. He knew he couldn't afford to reminisce in the middle of a busy café; who knew where his memories might take him. Draining his cup, he picked up his flimsy paper plate, still with a half-eaten bagel atop it, threw it in the trash, and began walking out to the front of the store. The woman behind the counter smiled at him.

"Have a good day, Mr. Weasley," she said cheerfully.

"You too," said George automatically. It bothered him that she knew him, but he still couldn't place how, so he let the thought slip from his mind as he pushed open the restaurant door and emerged into the glaring sunlight. Keeping his eyes down to shield them from the brightness, he walked briskly back to the hotel, not stopping until he was safely alone in on of the elegant lifts, en route to his room.

As he leaned back against the elevator wall, eyes half-closed, a sigh full of world-weariness escaping him, he felt a quick burst of contentment quite unrelated to anything he was currently experiencing emotionally. Surprised, he jolted upright, his heart beating a fierce rhythm in his chest, his blood pulsing an alive river through his veins. He had not felt anything remotely close to that since his other half had died.

It was not an unfamiliar sensation; in fact, when Fred had been alive he had felt these little random mood swings quite often. The twins' link to each other had been so strong that they had been able to innately sense each other's emotions, even when they had been in different places, or standing far away from one another in a room. This connection had provided help for Fred and George over the years: they always knew when something was wrong with the other and consequently it had been a little twinge of this bond that had forewarned George of Fred's death. He had not known what, exactly, had happened to his brother, but he had known it was very serious, for the tiny buzz of the link embedded deep within him, not unlike the frequency of a radio station, had fizzled and disappeared after it had alerted him of danger. Since that time it had been painfully, conspicuously silent, and George missed it horribly. Now, however, it appeared to have crackled back to life, a low hum just back from the front of his mind.

George furrowed his brow, an irrational joy leaping in his stomach. Strange. He knew it had to be a malfunction, he couldn't be sharing a link with Fred, it was impossible. Much as it slashed him to pieces to admit it, he knew Fred was gone, he had seen his brother's lifeless body with his own eyes, had held it in his arms long after the warmth had drained from Fred's skin. The sudden reawakening of the bond must have been a long overdue aftereffect.

He had arrived at his floor. Biting his lip, he stepped out of the lift, his feet touching the cobblestoned hall floor, which mirrored the streets of medieval times. The continuous buzz had not died out but remained with him, silent but constant, bringing with it the magnetic pull of his brother's presence. Unreasonable George found himself looking around for Fred, but just as he had known, there was no around; he was quite alone in the passageway. Fresh disappointment flooded his body and he shook himself mentally.

"He's not here, George," he told himself roughly. "He's gone and he's not coming back. Get used to it."

Arriving at his room, he shoved the key in the lock and opened the door. When he'd shut himself safely in he pressed his forehead against his door and pounded his fists weakly against it, a howl of miserable frustration building in his throat. The bond was a fluke, a mistake, but it was a torturous one. All the same he couldn't help but let the spark of hope that had kindled in his stomach grow just a little. It eased the hurt of loneliness that had been drowning him since the moment he'd realized he was one.

XXX

He stayed in his room until the slices of light that had been peeking through the cracks in the curtains had long since faded, only to be replaced with faint shafts of dusty moonlight. He did not move from where he lay prone on the bed, not even to get lunch, though relentless hunger scratched at his insides. He thought he must be going crazy, and when you were a babbling lunatic – or on your way to becoming one – what did food matter, really?

However, by eleven, the hunger had grown so unbearable that George could no longer ignore it. He slid off his bed and walked over to the fireplace, in front of which lay a small menu, then sat down and considered his options before clearing his throat and saying plainly into the sooty, charred fireplace, "Room service."

Instantly, the head of a rather harassed-looking elderly man popped up in front of him. He was wearing a stained chef's hat perched jauntily atop his head and an annoyed expression, but he had kind hazel eyes that winked merrily at George from under thick red brows.

"What can I get you?" he asked.

George asked for shepherd's pie and a cold pumpkin juice. Within moments a steaming hot dish of food, along with an icy pitcher of juice, had appeared on the table by the window. It smelled amazing.

"Er," said George. "How do I – erm – pay you?" He was hoping he wouldn't have to stick Galleons between the man's teeth.

"It's billed to your room, sir," said the chef, clearly amused. "Anything else?"

"No, thanks," said George, relieved.

"Have a good night, then," the man replied, and he was gone.

Famished, George scarfed the food and drank a tall glass of the ice-laced pumpkin juice before he was satisfied. Then, overcome once again with restlessness, he decided to take his chances and go visit the pool – not to swim in, but to sit by. It was eleven-thirty and he reasoned most people would be, if not asleep, at least in their rooms for the night.

He'd guessed right. The enormous pool was completely deserted, quiet and placid under a stunning, perfect night sky. There were so many stars studding the indigo dome that George could easily spell his twin's name among them, and before he'd even thought of what he was doing a genuine smile stole across his face, one of simple happiness. It felt nice.

Carefully he walked around the edges of the water to the deep end, where he surveyed his surroundings with eyes like cool ice. There was a picket fence surrounding the pool and, on the other side of it, a small gazebo. George set off for it and noticed that there were telescopes propped up in various places inside the little building. One of them was occupied; someone was bent over it, staring intently into the eyepiece. The very dim light made it nearly impossible to discern if the person was a male or a female, but George would have hazarded a guess at a man. He climbed the steps up into the gazebo and as he did a swoop of joy that he knew for certain was not his own overtook him, just as clear and unexpected at the first.

Involuntarily George gave a sharp intake of breath; he stopped where he was and beside him the other stargazer pulled back from their telescope to glance curiously at him. It was a man after all, but his face was hidden in shadow. All the same George could feel his gaze on him and was glad for the darkness blanketing his own features.

"Are you all right?"

It was a voice George had heard a million times before, a voice that was familiar and beautiful and full of vitality and, just now, concern. It was a voice that he'd thought belonged to him and him alone forever, that he'd thought he'd never hear from another again, for it was his voice and Fred's at the same time. Pure shock made George look over and as he did a beam of pearly moonlight brought his face into sharp relief.

He heard a harsh gasp and a murmured, "Oh, my God." Then the man stepped into the light and George saw himself standing before him: the naughty ice-blue eyes, the thousands of freckles dusted across a square, thin face...it could not be, but it was, for when George reached out to graze shaking fingertips over the other's cheek, he touched warm, solid skin.

"Fred?" he whispered.

(A/N):My thought bunnies are so bad about abandoning me. Sorry it's been so long, but chapter 3 is in the works right now, so it won't be long! Hope you liked it, and I promise I'll explain everything soon!