"Fred," said Molly, looking at the gurgling baby resting in the crook of her left arm, "and George." Her gaze turned to the identical baby lying symmetrically on her right.
"Fred and George," said Arthur fondly, brushing a strand of damp hair from his wife's blanched forehead. He leaned in close, hovering a beaming face before his new son. "Oww!" He jerked backwards, clutching his eye, and something tiny connected with his head from behind.
"Fred, George, behave," Molly chided the twins, unable to keep the smile from her face. Arthur laughed, and watching from a safe distance, could have sworn that the babies were actually smirking.
A seven year-old Fred and George crouched at the top of the staircase, clutching onto the railing like prison bars and peering down at their unsuspecting victim, Percy, as he stumbled his way through a painstakingly disguised trap and catapulted headfirst into the pile of shoes by the door. George dissolved into a silent peel of giggles and let go of the railing, holding his stomach -- a mistake -- he collapsed into Fred and sent them both tumbling down the staircase, finally landing in a pile of hysterical laughter at the bottom.
"Fred! George! How many times do I have to tell you -- ?" Mrs Weasley roared, hauling them bodily to their feet. "You could have seriously hurt him -- Percy dear, are you alright?" Her voice softened and she cast an anxious look at Percy, climbing to his feet and dusting himself off haughtily.
"Fine, mother." He cast a disdainful look at Fred and George, still giggling madly, and stalked off, highly affronted.
"Right. You two," Mrs Weasely took them both by the arm and began to march them up the stairs. "To bed with you."
"Aw, mum, come off it -- "
"Bill thinks it's funny, look." And indeed -- Bill had come out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was about, and was having a great deal of difficulty concealing his laughter.
"Not another word," snapped Mrs Weasely. "And you -- " she cast an angry glance at Bill, "don't encourage them. It's the last thing they need."
They were nine years old and playing quidditch with Bill, Charlie and a very enthusiastic Ron. George attempted a rather outrageous dive after a stray quaffle and tumbled off his broom not three feet from the ground, but came up howling nonetheless. "Ron, you've killed him!" cried Fred in distress (the quaffle having last been in their younger brother's hands).
"I didn't mean to!" yelped Ron, on the verge of tears.
"Now, now." Bill and Charlie landed beside George. Charlie inspected his cut whilst Bill went over to console Ron.
"It's not that bad," said Charlie, running a finger lightly over the red graze ribboning across George's knee, eliciting another howl. "Best get mum to have a look at it, just in case. Fred, you take him."
"Right you are." He threw an evil look at Ron, who promptly burst into tears, before hauling George up by the elbow and making a great show of limping him over the crest of the hill.
"Brilliant, George," he whispered, letting go of his arm.
"Thanks." George grinned as they began to circle the hill and head towards the village, casting furtive glances over their shoulders every now and again. "Not too much?" he asked, quite the professional, with just the right touch of anxiety.
"No, perfect." Fred threw an arm over his shoulder. "And we'll have Ron eating out of our hands for a week."
Fred bounced onto George's four poster bed in Gryffindor Tower, imitating his twin's stance of crossed legs and furrowed brow. "What's up?"
"Homework." George heaved an exasperated sigh.
"What? Homework? Since when has homework been at the fore of potential pursuits?"
"Since -- I -- you know, that's a very good question."
Fred grinned. "Are you feeling okay?" He felt George's forehead in mock seriousness.
"Shut up, I'm fine." He shrugged off Fred's hand and whacked him over the head in the same movement, matching his brother's grin.
"Where's Lee, anyway?"
"Detention."
"Humph. Well, at least someone has their priorities right."
"I said, shut up." George tackled Fred onto his back and pinned his wrists above his head, grinning wickedly. "Now, which hex shall I use on you?"
"I'll save you the trouble of deciding." Fred threw him off and reversed their positions, flashing an identical grin before he smacked a rough kiss onto George's cheek and climbed off. "Now let's go find a way too keep poor old Lee some company."
"Fred?"
"George?"
George groped his way through the darkness, jabbing his fingers into the wall and drawing a loud, indignant "ouch!", presumably from a portrait he'd just woken rather violently from it's slumber. His feet caught in the rumpled carpet, almost catapulting him headfirst into the dark unknown, and he pulled his wand angrily from his pocket, peering through it's luminous path at Fred, hunched into the wall on the corner of his bed and looking at George with a mild air of amused confusion that didn't really succeed in cracking the mask layered over his face. George collapsed onto the bed and threw his now dormant wand onto the dresser, arranging himself opposite Fred and touching a finger to his brother's ankle.
"He's going to be okay."
"I know."
Silence. The rest of George's fingers found their way around Fred's ankle and gripped, tight. "Are you okay?"
"Are you?"
George grinned, fleeting, and pulled Fred into a hug. Fred traced a fingertip over the smile he couldn't see on his twin's face, but knew was there anyway. "Sleep," he murmured into George's hair, and voiced no complaints when George pulled him under the covers of his own bed and didn't let go.
"This is it," said Fred in an awed voice. "We're actually doing it."
"Yeah," said George breathlessly, spinning himself round and round in reminiscence of a five year-old, arms flung wide. "Yeah."
Fred watched, a smile playing on his lips, as George spun himself into a state of inebriation and stumbled across the empty, dust-laden room to his brother, grinning. Fred turned to gaze out of the window onto the empty street, fading into pale streaks of sunlight, and smiled again when he felt George's arms creep about his waist. "How d'you think things are going back at Hogwarts?" asked George, settling his chin on Fred's shoulder.
"I think we've started a revolution."
George laughed quietly into his twin's neck. "Yeah, no doubt."
"Fred, where's the -- ?"
Fred threw a lumpy package across the room and George caught it, grinning. "Thanks. And the -- ?"
Another parcel came hurtling across, narrowly missing his head. "Right. Just one more -- "
This time it landed in front of him and George added it to the pile behind him, striding across the room and catching Fred in a bone-crushing hug.
George sighedmoaned as a finger trailed lazily over his hipbone, making him shiver. He raked his fingers through Fred's hair and leaned into the hand now fanning over his cheek. Opening his eyes, he smiled into the identical blue pair twinkling back at him, and traced the dappled sprinkling of freckles on his twin's cheek much like an astronomer would follow a well-practised constellation.
At times like this, when their legs were tangled and every part of themselves fell into perfect alignment, George found himself wondering how everybody else managed to survive. How they managed to keep going when sometimes, all that held him together was this -- this extension of himself into a whole new person; living, breathing, alike in every way and yet, completely different because it wasn't him -- it was Fred.
And Fred, fingers poised on his collarbone like a ledge, settled his head into the curve of George's neck and asked, "how do they do it?"
George smiled (because he didn't need to ask) and said, "I guess it's like they always say," he shifted slightly, "they never knew it, so they can't miss it."
"Mmm." Fred mumbled into his skin and said nothing more. That was the real beauty of this, they both knew. George smiled again and pulled him closer.
"Fred, what happens if one of us -- ?"
"We won't."
"Yeah, but what if -- ?"
"George, we won't."
"Yes, but -- "
Fred didn't interrupt this time -- George stopped of his own accord, looking at his twin and biting his lip. Fred pulled him into his arms and pressed their identical milky cheeks together, pale smatterings of freckles perfectly aligned. Whispered against his skin, "together. Always together."
Noise, noise -- that's all there was, as George fought his way through the masses, firing spells at the Death Eaters, catching a flicker of red in the corner of his eye and shouting, reeling off names as they came closer and closer, labouring and slow. And then they were leaving, the crowd was thinning, and he wondered why, what was happening now, until the red-headed figure materialised and he forgot everything, choked and swallowed and choked again, and screamed. People were still shouting, Percy was crying, but it was just noise and it was nothing, nothing at all. Because Fred; his brother, his twin, his everything --
And all he could think as he caught Fred in his arms, as they both sank to the floor, as everything swam before his eyes and all he could see was one face (theirs), was no -- no, please god, no.
George waits until Mr Weasley has his mother safely held in his arms, until everybody else is distracted by Harry and all the commotion, and slips silently into the room where their dead have been carefully laid, side by side.
"Fred," he chokes, on his knees beside his brother, and pushes the still-damp hair from his forehead, rests his hand over the perfectly corresponding cheek, a continuation of skin on skin.
It's frightening to see his twin, his identical twin, lying there before him, dead. Because it's his face, his -- everything. But it's Fred, and George chokes out his name again, leaning forwards until their foreheads touch, asking like he expects an answer, like he needs an answer, "What am I supposed to do, mate?"
He sits back a little, searching the face before him like he's going to find an answer in the soft, dappled galaxy of freckles, the wide blue eyes, the mouth still curved in the ghost of a smile. "Fred," he breathes again, and now he can't stop the tears from falling, because this is all he's ever known, all he's ever had, all he's ever needed -- them, together, Fred and George.
But, he thinks -- he thinks -- that he understands something, too. Looking down into the still face of his twin, so like his own (his own), he realises that really, it is him. Because what is he without Fred? What is Fred without him? And the answer is; only a half.
Because it's only ever been Fred and George -- never Fred, never George -- just Fred and George. So he brushes his fingers over Fred's cheek, gently, and leans down again to whisper in his ear. "Together. Always together."
And sometime later (seconds, minutes, hours -- he doesn't know and it doesn't matter) he stands, the tears still falling, and walks from the room to wait. Because he knows that he'll only be whole again when he finds Fred, and he knows that they've never been separated for long.