A/N: This chapter is the one that inspired this project. It's actually an outtake from chapter two of George and Angelina: Finding Balance. If you haven't already read it, don't worry I did my best to make this stand alone. Also, Molly references her own break down, if your curious about that, check out The Year of the Weasley Scarves. Thanks for reading!

Disclaimer: The characters and world belong to JK Rowling.

Happy April Fool's Day

"Are you ready?"

George drug a hand down his face, then looked up at Angelina. The tattoo had only taken a moment, not nearly as long as George had been hoping truthfully. He'd been looking forward to the pain of a Muggle tattoo, having Fred's name seared into his skin. Instead, George's damn arm went to sleep. As quickly as the session was over, George had needed nearly twice as much time to get his head together after.

Some way to spend his twenty-first birthday.

"Yeah," George said huskily.

"The tattoo artist said you need to keep your arm bandaged for at least four hours," Angelina said. She'd been busy taking care of all the details while George had gone to pieces. Sometimes, he didn't know what he'd do without Angelina.

"Really?" George pushed out of the chair and walked to her.

She narrowed her eyes. "Something like that."

"Alright, let's go then."

"Hey." Angelina placed a hand on George's arm, effectively halting him, then whispered, "I'll Apparate us back to Diagon Alley."

It never occurred to George to argue, and he could have—he was damned good at Apparition. He'd brought the two of them to this blighted section of Muggle London, but he knew he wasn't in any shape to do the return trip. Was there ever any question that this would be a bloody awful day?

A quick trip from one grimy alley to another, then George was racing up the rickety stairs to his flat above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. He threw his coat in the direction of his sofa and dashed into the loo. Yanking up the sleeve of his black t-shirt, he saw the great, white, rectangular bandage that the artist had slapped on his arm with something like Spello-tape. George dug at the corner until he pried it up and gave it a good yank.

"Shite!" That stung. "Bloody hell!"

George fanned his arm with his hand as if that would make the sting go away. Why hadn't anyone told him it hurt to take off a Muggle bandage? Merlin's fat arse, did he have any skin left?

"You just couldn't wait, could you?"

Angelina appeared in the doorway, that damn eyebrow of hers mocking him.

"I-I just wanted to see it," George admitted.

Taking out her wand, Angelina sucked away the bits of blood and other miscellaneous bodily fluids seeping out of his new tattoo. George watched her face as she cast a cooling charm to numb the pain, and healed his skin. Her brown eyes were trained on his arm, and she was so near he could smell her perfume.

"There," she said, and stepped back.

George looked into the mirror, but all he could see was 'DERF'. On any other day, George would have thought that was hilarious. How had he never noticed that Fred's name spelled Derf in reverse? Twenty years of making Derf jokes lost. Today, however, George couldn't find the energy to spare more than a small smirk.

"Let me," Angelina said, and pointed her wand at the mirror. Suddenly George could read the name properly.

'Fred', just as if the man himself had written it across his twin's skin.

"Cheers," George muttered.

"Any time." Angelina squeezed in behind him so that he could see her face peering over his shoulder in the mirror. She propped her chin there, her hands lightly on his ribs, her breasts brushing against his back. "It's really well done."

"Yeah."

What else was there to say? Fred would have thought it was a tepid choice at best. Where was the hilarity in simply inking Fred's name onto George's arm? There was no doubt in his mind that Fred would have preferred a much more ostentatious tribute, but this felt right. After all, how many of their pranks would have been successful if Fred had been left to his own devices?

"Can I have a moment?" George said.

"Oh." Angelina stepped away. "Are you sure? I don't mind staying if—I mean, I've seen you cry before."

Mirror George's ear turned red. Dammit. He hated blushing.

"Er, cheers, but I've got to piss."

Now Angelina blushed. "Oh! I'll just wait in the lounge, yeah?"

It was only half a lie. George did need to piss, but he also wanted to be alone. These last weeks in the lead up to his birthday, he'd become rather dependent on Angelina's presence. She showed up after training looking like a million galleons, made him a little dinner, something better than baked beans on toast anyway, and just kept him company. He had to admit it was a damn sight better than the drinking and screwing he had been doing. Still, maybe he needed a quiet moment with his twin on this day, their birthday.

"Well, Fred," he started, and closed his eyes. It always felt bloody stupid to speak aloud when the only voice that responded was in his own effing head.

Get on with it. You're making a real cake out of yourself on our birthday of all days.

"Oi! At least I did something that will to properly piss off Mum. I got a tattoo."

Yeah, bet you're too big of a pussy to show her.

"Even memory Fred is a prick. Or should I say Derf?"

Laughter.

George squeezed his eyes tighter. The laughter was the hardest part. He could picture his twin perfectly, he could hear the voice, imagine the terrible and funny things the wanker would have said. The laughter hurt. George heard it in monotone when it should have been in stereo, but he could never find it in himself to match his laugh with the memory of Fred's.

"Well, I gotta go," George said. "Got a girl here, on my birthday."

Yeah, Angelina. Hasn't even offered a pity fu—

"Watch it," George warned.

Ah, you always fancied her, numb nuts.

"Don't make me regret spending time with you on our birthday."

Me? This isn't me. It's all in your head.

George opened his eyes. Head Fred was no more sentimental than the real article had been. Besides, talking to Fred always made George feel a bit mental. In all honesty, late at night, he sometimes feared for his sanity.

Taking a deep breath, George finished in the toilet and walked out of the loo. Angelina was sitting on his sofa, the look in her eyes soft with understanding. Had she heard his one-sided conversation? Probably. He scurried into the kitchen and returned with a bag of crisps.

"There's something else you have to do today," Angelina said when he plopped down beside her.

"Yeah, what's that?" George asked, mouth full.

She cuffed him upside his head. "Manners!"

"Harpy," George muttered and licked salt from his fingers.

"You need to see your mother."

It was on the tip of his tongue to argue. George had told Mum a week ago that he didn't want a birthday party. He'd expected her to cry, but she just sighed and said she understood. That was probably truer than George wanted to think about. In some ways, he thought his mum was the only one who truly understood his pain. Fred was a part of her, after all, just the same as he was a part of George.

With a sigh, George admitted to himself that Angelina was right.

"Thanks for coming with me today," he said.

Angelina looked at him, as if she were expecting him to say something else, then blinked. "Oh, well, that's what friends are for."

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

She nodded slowly. "Sure, if you like. I have training all day, but after, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Angelina looked uncertain for a moment, though George couldn't figure out why. It was like she was waiting for something—what, he hadn't the foggiest. Anyway, he was saved in the end from actually having to ask (and looking like a git in the process) when she stood, and using her wand, Summoned her jacket and purse. Angelina smiled down at George. It wasn't that bloody sad smile everybody else used on him these days when the emotions got the better of him. George liked to think that Angie's smile was just a little fond.

"Happy—" she stopped. The unspoken word hung in the air as thick and oppressive as humidity. "Happy April Fool's Day, Georgie."

George gave her a small smile. "I'll have to do better next year, won't I? Haven't played a single prank all day."

Angelina hugged him, then left without a lot of fuss. That's one of the things he liked about Angie. She didn't make a big to do, she just got on with it. Figuring he shouldn't put off the inevitable any longer than necessary, George grabbed his own jacket—it somehow got hung on a hook by the door, Angelina's doing he reckoned—and Disapparated. It took only a moment and he found himself standing on the edge of the Burrow's lands. The orchard was still leafless and gray, but in a few weeks new buds would appear, and before George knew it, there would be a riot of white and pink blossoms. Smoke curled up from the crooked house's chimneys, the path up to it well worn and familiar. Mum would already have the snow peas and broccoli ready to go into the ground in a week or two.

When George opened the kitchen door, Mum hopped up from the table. Her eyes locked with George's. She'd been crying, but at the sight of her son, she smiled and it reached all the way to those amazing eyes.

"Oh my dear," she said and pressed a fist against her heart. "I didn't know if you would come, but I… I baked cupcakes for you, just in case."

"Chocolate chip with chocolate frosting?"

"Just the way you like it," she affirmed with a nod. "Let me just get your father."

"Wait, Mum." George crossed to his mum and hugged her. She returned his embrace fiercely, a small sob breaking loose. When he pulled away, she smiled and patted his cheek. "Th-there's something I want to show you."

"What is it, George?" Mum asked. There was a wary look on her face, as if she expected trouble, but was trying to keep an open mind.

"Don't be mad, Mum." He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

"George—"

Pulling his shirtsleeve up, George bared his arm so that Mum could see Fred's name engraved on his skin. Mum gasped, covering her mouth as she stared wide-eyed at the tattoo. It was all George could do to stand still. The yelling would commence any moment, and the upside was that it would be like old times. What was a Weasley twins' birthday without Molly screaming at them?

"Oh, George," Mum whispered. She traced the letters with her fingers. "It's-it's perfect."

"You think so?" George asked.

"I do."

She looked up at him and smiled. The next thing he knew, he was in his mother's arms, sobbing like a child.

"I've been having a hard time, Mum," he said.

"I know, dear."

"I've made an arse of myself, and-and I've done things I'm not proud of. It just hurts so much."

"I know that, too, but you are hardly the only one. I know something about doing things I'm not proud of. It wasn't that many months ago that I had my own breakdown, if you'll remember."

"How am I going to make it through May 2? I barely made it to my damned birthday."

"Together, my love, it's our only choice."

"Molly, I just—" Dad walked into the kitchen carrying the newspaper and came to a halt. "Oh. George, I didn't know you were here, son."

George straightened and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Hi, Dad."

Opening his mouth, then closing it again, Dad simply offered a sad smile, then hugged George.

"I gather I have a cupcake," George said.

"Yes, well, if you can hold off, your brothers are on their way," Dad replied.

"Oh!" Mum straightened her apron.

"I was just coming to tell you, Molly, that Bill Floo-called. He and Percy will be here—Well, here they are."

The back door opened and in came George's first and third brothers. Mum immediately burst into action. She flicked her wand at the hutch and a stack of plates zoomed to the table, silverware marched in pairs, and glasses flew through the air. Mum scurried to the cooling cupboard, but Percy waylaid her, assuring her that it was not necessary to feed them.

"Mum," George complained, "I thought we weren't doing the party thing this year."

"Don't blame Mum," Bill said.

"We just wanted to come visit her on…" Percy started but trailed off.

"Besides," Bill added brightly, "we are stag tonight. We couldn't party without Fleur and Audrey."

George coughed into his hand, which sounded suspiciously like the word 'whipped'.

A dangerous light flared in Bill's blue eyes. He sidled up to George and pitched his voice low, "Did you just call me whipped?"

George looked around. Oh shite, what had he just walked himself into?

"As in pussy whipped?" Bill whispered. One corner of his mouth pulled into a smirk and he looked over George's head to make sure Percy had Mum occupied. "At least I know what to do with one, little brother."

George flushed bright red.

Bill laughed and slapped him on the back.

The door open and Ron loped in. "Oi, George, never leave the shop on April 1 again. The damn place was bloody mental!"

"Watch your language, Ronald!" Mum said. "Now, boys, I didn't know you were coming. I haven't fixed anything, but there is some leftover roast chicken and carrots and…"

"Mum, we ate with Fleur and Audrey," Bill said.

Percy took Mum by the shoulders and directed her to the table. "Really, Mum, just relax. No need to feed us."

"Speak for yourselves, you bloody, big prats," Ron grumbled. He was standing at the cooling cabinet with a plate of chicken tucked into his arm and stacking a bowl of parsnips on top. "I'm starved. Hardly sat down all day. George, you are going to have to staff double the shop girls next year."

George stood in the middle of the kitchen watching his family mill around him. Dad sat at the head of the table speaking earnestly to Percy. Bill was busy reassuring Mum. Ron walked across the kitchen with an armload of food. It was almost normal.

Once seated, Ron looked up at George. "I almost forgot. This came by owl today, Ginny sent it." He pulled a parchment out of his pocket and handed it to George.

George took the scroll, unfurled it and got spit on. The parchment blew a raspberry at him then broke out into song:

"Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you,

You look like a hippogriff

And you smell like one, too!"

For a moment, George just stared at the parchment. On the inside Ginny had written, "Many happy returns, April Fool." And the next thing he knew, he was laughing. A full belly laugh that had him bent double. His brothers and parents soon joined in, and while George couldn't hear the laugh that harmonized with his, it was still music to his ears. Or ear, as the case might be. There was laughter on his birthday.

"Mum," he said, rerolling the parchment and stowing it in his back pocket, "did you say something about cupcakes?"

Mum hopped up and bustled away. George sat at the table next to Bill, who ruffled his hair. Dad launched into a story about how similar Muggle traditions on April Fool's Day were to wizard ones. George slowly pulled his wand from his pocket, aimed it at Ron's chair and watched with satisfaction as its legs disappeared and Ron crashed to the floor.

"Bloody hell!" Ron roared, his mouth full.

"George Weasley, did you do that?" Mum screeched.

Percy covered his mouth to hide his smile and Bill laughed outright, while Dad merely shook his head. George smirked, rubbing his arm where the tattoo was hid under his sleeve. All was not well on this blasted day, but it was one more stumbling block met and he was still standing. Maybe he'd give that holding-it-together thing another try.