A/N: Keep the reviews coming! Any ideas or comments you have (constructive criticism, not slamming), I'd love to hear! Thanks guys. Here's something funny I found the other day:

Two fish are in a tank together. One says to the other, "do you know how to drive this thing?"

Well, I thought it was funny. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. As if that wasn't obvious.

He fell to the floor, without grace, dignity, or control. His whole body simply collapsed over, and he didn't move again. Even the air seemed to stand still until my wand fell from my hand and hit the floor with a clink. That sort of awoken me. I stumbled backward, gasping, until I fell. Even then I scooted back, horrified at what I'd done. I could see his eyes: they stared straight at me, blank and unblinking. I froze, waiting for them to blink.

Forcing myself to look away, I stood up slowly and walked forward to grab my wand. As I reached for it, I couldn't help but envision his hand reaching out and grabbing mine. It was all too real, so, stifling a scream, I grabbed up my wand and ran for the front door. As I reached the entryway I saw my mother's form lying still as well. Covering my mouth to prevent another scream, I jumped over it and swung open the door. Dim light flooded in. As soon as I hit the cool outside air, I slammed the door shut behind me and turned, staring at the house, breathing heavily and at the same time feeling suffocated.

A few minutes later, I sat waiting for Kingsley on the front steps. It was already dark, and there was an ominous collection of storm clouds that had people rushing to get home. Kingsley, walking slowly and calmly through the brisk wind, attracted more attention than the people running for cabs. Well, the slow walk and his ostentatious purple cloak.

"Rian," he said, reaching me. I appreciated that he came alone: I had no intention of falling apart in front of snide Ministry workers.

"I didn't mean to," I said repeatedly. "I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't mean to."

It took Kingsley ten minutes to get me to stop babbling and go inside. Finally I followed behind him, twisting my hands nervously together. Kingsley stopped and examined my mother's body, nodding at something, before continuing into the kitchen while I stayed in the entryway, avoiding looking at her sprawled and indecorous form.

"Rian," called Kingsley suddenly.

I jumped. "N-no," I said nervously, knowing he was coaxing me into the kitchen.

"Rian, please. I need a confirmation."

A confirmation of the body. The body that was lifeless because of me. I was a murderer. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "Alright," I said, clutching the wall as I entered the kitchen. Once there, my eyes were drawn involuntarily toward the body and I looked at the man with horror. "Oh, God," I whispered, staggering backward. "It was an accident. I wasn't trying to kill him."

Kill him. I killed him.

"Yet it looks like you did a good job of it," said Kingsley, peering at the masked man. My victim's face was covered in shadows from my angle, but I turned my head anyway, my breath quickening. "Is this him?"

"Were you expecting me to have killed someone else?" I asked, on the verge of tears.

Kingsley took a step toward me and put his hands on my shoulders. "Rian."

I glanced back at the man's face. His open eyes stared at me accusingly and I found that I couldn't look away. "Yeah, that's him."

"What happened?" asked Kingsley, leading me into the hallway.

"It was self-defense," I pleaded, ignoring him. I babbled on and on, defending myself over and over again, interrupting him each time he tried to speak. Finally Kingsley sent a call to Ministry workers, and pulled me to an empty upstairs room to wait for them. He set them in order down in the kitchen, and then came back up. "Rian, it's alright," he said, in his deep, comforting voice. "I know you didn't mean it to end like this. But you must tell me exactly what happened, otherwise I can't help you. I've got to be able to prove that it was self-defense."

I did tell him, though it took probably half an hour to get through what was, in fact, a very brief account of events. At the end of the exhausting time, Kingsley walked me downstairs. The kitchen and front hallway were crowded with people, so we went out the side door, managing to evade the sight of the Daily Prophet reporters.

"Alright," said Kingsley, once we were alone. "I want you to go to the Burrow. Stay there for the night. I'll be by in the afternoon to talk to you some more, after I talk to your brother."

"Could I...what about Fred and George's...?" I asked, because I needed to be sure that they didn't see this the same way I did. I needed them to calm me down. They deserved to hear about this from me, and I knew that if I didn't tell them tonight, I'd never be able to.

Kingsley nodded. "That's fine. But go straight there, do you hear me? This is a very nerve-wracking event for you, and I know you're going to be scared. It will help to see them, I think. Tell them everything, they'll understand."

I shivered and looked back at the house. "How?" I asked. "I don't even understand."

He put a hand on my shoulder and I felt like a small child. There was a strange longing in my chest: I wished more than anything for a father right now, someone who would have been there for me at a time like this. But I had nothing like that because of the dead woman in my entryway. And now I didn't even have a mother, thanks to the man lying dead in the kitchen. But, if he had children, they no longer had a father, thanks to me. What a hideous and endless circle of death. Time seemed to end, then and there, because I couldn't return to a time before this occurred, and I couldn't count on time to erase what had happened.

Kingsley may have noticed something change in me, because he abruptly straightened and walked me to the edge of the street. "I'm not sure if you should Apparate. I'll get you on the Knight Bus. Then go to their flat, get some rest, talk to them."

He waited with me, and walked me onto the bus, even paying for my fare. I dazedly remembered that I needed to pay him back, but all too soon the bus was moving, and even the coaster-like ride didn't faze me. The ride was as calm as a ferry to me, and I leaned my head against the window, staring out at the rain, trying very hard not to think about anything. I got off at the Leaky Cauldron and walked past Tom into the back, to Diagon Alley. The night was getting colder with every breath I took, and the ever present shadows had me jumping every few seconds. It was drizzling a little; each drop felt like a bullet, and shocked me just as much. I shivered and took a shaky breath, still trying not to cry as I headed down the street. I almost wished I could have cried, had the rain hide the tear stains before I knocked on their door, but I couldn't relinquish the control; I had control over few things at the moment and I was going to prolong it as long as possible.

A few minutes later I was staring at their door, trying to remember if I had knocked or not when I heard someone clomping down the steps, not taking much care or precaution. They'd most likely have been asleep, as I hadn't seen any lights on. I almost prepared myself to be hexed for waking them up, but I couldn't really be bothered. Kingsley was right: at the moment it was just essential to at least see them. Either of them. I needed to know that not everything in the world was completely upside down, that they were still alive, and that they forgave me-

Fred opened the door, a pissed off look on his face. He glared at me through the rain, squinting slightly until he illuminated the end of his wand. When he realized it was me, his cautiously held wand arm relaxed and lowered to his side, and the expression on his face softened slightly. I had woken him up; a hastily thrown on Quidditch jersey was inside out and his black boxers and bright red hair were rumpled with sleep, or perhaps irritation. His eyes were half opened as he looked at me, allowing only a glimpse of his deep brown irises, not that I could see them anyway, due to the dark. However, I could imagine their warm, rich colour easily and I felt a burst of particular affection for his eyes, his brilliantly red hair, his pale legs, his squinting eyes. Almost immediately there was a small, warm explosion in my chest, much like walking through a dark, chilly room, only to discover a roaring fire and candles in the next. I wanted nothing more than to throw myself at him, but I couldn't move.

"Bloody he-e-ell Rian," he said, yawning and then leaning against the doorframe. However, he didn't look too angry to see me. Fred wasn't a huge grudge holder, and I was more thankful for it than I'd ever been. I should have remembered that earlier. I wished this wasn't the first time I'd seen him since our fight. "What are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?"

It was most likely around one in the morning, now that I thought about the time. Thought it wasn't that late, when Fred went to bed, he was never happy to be awoken.

"I know. I'm sorry," I said, looking down at a notch in the doorframe as I picked at it with my thumb. I opened my mouth, but couldn't find the words. How did I begin to describe what had happened? I looked up at the sky, trying desperately to hold back tears. It was wickedly hard and slow to try and get out every word before the dam broke. By now he'd most likely figured out that something was wrong and he was reaching toward me, actually looking concerned.

"What's the m-?" he began, but the words suddenly flew out of my mouth like a torrent, and I cut him off. He froze halfway toward me.

"I killed him."

Fred's eyes widened and my finger slipped, cutting a small slice in the skin.

"I mean...he killed my mum, and then I...I...I killed him."

I didn't know what else to say, what else I could add at the moment, though the silence felt tense and pressured. I glanced up at Fred, to find he was staring at me in open-mouthed shock. We didn't move for several seconds, and each second felt like a year as I felt drowned in terror and rain. I needed him to move first, because I couldn't. Because I was a murderer, and he had to accept that before I could feel right about even being near him. Finally, Fred took a step forward and that was all he had to do to break my fragile restraint. I also advanced, burying my head against his chest as all my attempts at quieting my tears failed. He pressed his arms against my back, and his hand gently caressed the back of my neck as he shushed me gently. I wrapped my arms around Fred's waist, and his body was comforting to me, something tangible that I could use to ground myself in reality. He was real, and whole, and alive. I could feel his warm skin and heartbeat, proof that life was still pounding on inside of him. I knew that he was watching my back for me, that I was safe here, and that was immensely comforting.

However, I was still terrified. I hated that my body was violently shaking, but I couldn't stop it. I'd never seen anyone die before. I'd certainly never killed anyone before. I killed him. Me. His loss of life was my responsibility. Despite the fact that he would have most certainly killed me, I couldn't shake the thought that I could have done something much more harmless.

But Fred didn't seem to hate me for it, and that very nearly overruled the horror I felt toward myself.

"Fred, what is going—Rian? What happened?" asked George. Fred pushed my head closer to his chest, one arm still on my back. To me, it meant that he was taking care of everything for me, including explanation, as he whispered words even I couldn't hear. I did hear George walk around us, and he murmured to Fred, who moved away from the doorway toward the back, practically dragging me with him. He gently pushed me down onto the stairs that led to their flat, and sat with me. The front door closed softly, and a few seconds later an overhead light turned on, illuminating the back area of the shop. I leaned against Fred, and George sat beside us while Fred rocked me gently as I cried. I was slightly hysterical, and Fred brushed my hair continuously, soothingly. Both seemed to be as helpless as I felt, the way I could sense them staring at me. Eventually, once I calmed down, I rearranged the way I was seated, so that I was more in the middle of them, rather than being buried in Fred's chest. I picked the crust of blood off the small slice in my finger to avoid looking at them.

"Kingsley told me that I sh-should stay here, but is that al-alright? I mean, if it's a pr-problem then I can..."

"Why would you even have to ask?" interrupted George kindly. "Of course you can stay here."

"Yeah, we don't want you by yourself with a bunch of nutters after you, trying to avenge their mate."

I didn't have to look up to see George shoot Fred a look that said "not helping". Fred cleared his throat.

"What happened?" asked George, and I shook my head. "Stop that."

He took my hand and looked at me intently and I had no excuse to avoid looking at them. For a split second I was reminded of Mrs. Weasley, as George stared inquiringly at me. That was probably what did me in, so I began to tell them, though it took even longer than it did with Kingsley.

"And then h-he sent a killing curse my way at the same time I did. His missed..." I said, after a long and slow battle with crying.

"And yours didn't," finished Fred.

I felt the tears coming again as they were silent for what seemed like an eternity. They both looked at each other.

"Rian," said Fred slowly. "Everything's...it's going to be alright."

"You're safe, mate," said George consolingly. "Nobody's going to sneak up on you in here."

"You don't have to worry about a thing. We'll take care of you."

I let out a half-sob. They didn't care about what I'd done. They were only worried about me, and that concern was overwhelming. I'd never realized how much I needed them. Fred took my hand now and I looked up at him.

"You know, a nice, big mug of tea might help," said George, glancing at us. "I'll...I'll meet you upstairs." He left us in the store alone. As soon as we heard the door shut, Fred's grip on my hand tightened and he pulled me up. We looked at each other momentarily, both of us unsure.

"I'm sorry," we said quickly in unison, and then awkwardly looked at each other. Fred still held my hand, which seemed to feed me with an energy I desperately needed. I could function, I could live. So I spoke quickly.

"Fred, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I'm so sorry. I just didn't want you to think I'd be like her, because I was scared that I was going to be like her...I guess you were right though: I am, a little bit, especially now."

"Of course you aren't," he said fiercely, exasperatedly. "I...that was my fault. I'm really sorry about that. I shouldn't have said that, it was completely out of line. Tonight doesn't make you anything like her. I know why you kept it from us, even if I don't like it. It was just a shock, is all."

"I should have told you, though. Years ago."

He tucked a piece of hair behind my ear and cupped my face. "Well, you didn't, and there's nothing we can do about that now. Anyway, are you alright?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I'm scared."

Fred nodded. "That's to be expected. C'mon, let's go upstairs. George is right, some tea will probably help. Calming, you know."

I'd barely sat down on the couch when George appeared with a tea that, I found, was laden with brandy.

"I'm trying not to become a depressed drunk," I said, trying to seem mild. I felt frozen and I desperately wanted to drown the tea, as well as down the bottle of brandy. Instead I set the tea on the table beside me.

"Because one tea with brandy is going to make you a raving alcoholic," said Fred sarcastically, but not unkindly. I still didn't touch the mug.

"Sorry about that, I didn't think...I'll get you some regular tea," said George, grimacing. "Do you...is there anything you want?"

"I'm fine, thanks, George," I said. He nodded and walked into the kitchen. I turned to look at Fred, and the look on his face surprised me. It was a mixture of sadness and desperation.

I wish they'd stop acting so sombre; I needed their optimistic and joking nature more than ever. I'd never been around when neither seemed to know what to say, and I hated it. I hated that I was the cause of it.

"Fred-"

"You're freezing," said Fred, nodding at my soaking robes. "Let me get you a blanket or something." He walked out to the kitchen too, and I could hear George and him talking. Whispering. I buried my head in my hands. I knew that they had to have time to absorb the information as well, but I wished they didn't need that time. Nonetheless, I gave them a few minutes before I stood up and walked into the kitchen, really wishing Fred had been getting a blanket, because I was freezing.

"Blankets don't usually have voices, do they, Fred?" I asked. He laughed, and then quickly sobered, as though he had done something wrong. It was nice hearing Fred's laugh though, if only at my bad joke. George handed me a tea. I wrapped my hands around the warm mug and took a gulp, ignoring the burning temperature. He must have put some sort of potion in it, because I instantly felt my frayed nerves calm. I glanced at him and he looked away.

"We were just talking about where you'd sleep," he said. Though they were accomplished liars, I knew that they weren't telling me the truth. I really didn't like that they were talking about me behind my back, but I suppose it was to be expected.

"We decided that you'll take my bed, and I'll sleep on the couch," said Fred as I downed the rest of the tea. I wondered if the potion was more dangerous than the brandy.

"I can sleep on the couch," I protested, preferring the warm fire to the cool darkness of Fred's room.

"And deprive me of the chance to be a gentleman?" he asked.

"But-" I began.

"You'll sleep better on a bed," said Fred. "Now stop arguing."

"Speaking of sleep, you've got to be knackered, haven't you?" asked George, looking at me worriedly. I was, but not the kind of exhausted that sleep would cure. I began to shrug, but as I looked at them, they both seemed as though they could easily fall over at any second, so I nodded halfway through the shrug.

"Yeah, I am. Exhausted."

"I'll let Fred tuck you in," said George, grinning slightly. He hugged me tightly and kissed my cheek. "Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine," I said, attempting a smile. It must have been unconvincing because he gave me a reproving look. "Sleep will help, I'm sure."

"It will," he said emphatically. "It won't seem so bad in the morning. It never does."

Or it'll be worse. "I know. Just getting through the first night..."

"You know if you need either or us, we're here."

Fred nodded. "Feel free to wake either of us up."

"I will, of course," I said, clasping George's hand. He hugged me again.

"G'night."

"Night," I said. I watched him walk back to his room. I looked at Fred when George's door closed. He too hugged me tightly.

"If you need anything, wake me up," said Fred softly, in my ear. There was nothing flirtatious, sarcastic, or joking in his tone; it was completely sincere. "I'll be out here and I won't mind. Its hell going to bed after what you went through, but you do need sleep."

I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep at all, but if they were able to, I wasn't going to hold them up. However, I suddenly lost track of all thought as Fred kissed my cheek, and his face lingered by mine; I closed my eyes as his lips touched my mouth and I realized in that instant that I was in love with him. I loved him in every passionate, romantic sense I could think. He'd been an object of my love for years, but just as my best mate. There was something like a flip in my heart, and it made my stomach hurt in a wonderful way. I could nearly feel my blood rushing through my veins as he touched me, and I knew that I didn't want to just continue whatever it was we had; I wanted to be his and only his. And I wanted him to be mine. I needed to tell him immediately; later was too far away. A million things could happen between now and later. A million dreadful, horrific, nightmarish things. And it was so inane, so unfair to keep such a significant thing from him at a time like this.

But I still couldn't. Because what if he was still secretly angry? And what if he did think of me as a murderer? What if he was scared of me? Aside from all that, I didn't want to tell him until I was sure he wanted to say it back. Although, I was never going to be sure of that.

"Wait," I said, quickly making a decision and grabbing his hand as he pulled away, beginning to lead me to his room. "I...I'm going to stay out here, by the fire."

Fred looked as though he was about to protest as I released my grip but then nodded and turned away again. "Alright, I'll keep my door open. Let's make you up a bed—"

I grabbed his hand again as he began to walk. His fingers curled automatically around my palm. "I want you to stay with me," I interrupted. I glanced down at our intertwining fingers and released them. "Please?"

He could say no. He could, and knowing Fred, if he felt that way, would, tell me that he didn't trust me. That he hated me, and couldn't stand the sight of me. He could be repulsed by my request, and I feared he would turn from me in disgust. But he did none of these things. Surprise was evident on his face, but he nodded again, though not nearly as easily this time, and took my hand. "Alright," he repeated slowly, and my tense body relaxed minutely. "I'll get you something to change into and we'll get some stuff for a bed."

I followed him into his room, where he handed me a soft black shirt and a pair of pants I recognized from Quidditch practice. Once he walked out of the room, laden with pillows and blankets that left the bed naked, I peeled off my robes and changed. As I did so, I stared out the window at the multicoloured cobblestones and stores. I was alive because of timing, perfect timing. That was all that stood between myself and death. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the window, though I felt as though the dead man's face was going to appear in it. I tugged on the clothes as quickly as I could, most likely inside out and backwards, but I couldn't wait to be out of the room, couldn't wait to not be alone. I swung open the door and ran down the dark hallway, trying not to imagine someone waiting to jump out from behind each corner. The two second walk seemed to take two hours and I doubted the potion George had used had been any sort of quality, for, again, I was extremely terrified of everything.

Fred was standing behind the couch, supervising the making of a bed and I ran toward him, ready for the feeling of safety again. Pillows and blankets arranged themselves in a comfortable fashion, and the space before the fire looked irresistibly inviting. I managed to slow to a walk, and I stood behind Fred. As he turned I wrapped my arms around his neck again and I laid my head on his heart, the same place I'd laid against him earlier, although now, Fred gave a bit of a start, as if shocked. Then his large hands wrapped around my back. The feeling was familiar and possibly the most wonderful in the world.

"I'm scared to sleep," I whispered, trying to avoid waking George up, while also trying not to look at Fred's chest, even though my head was on it. His shirt had gone someplace, exposing his toned but not overly muscular body, though I couldn't blame him. I knew Fred never slept with a shirt on, and it was really hot by the fire. My own body was prickling with sweat, but that may have been because my chest was tight. I tried to avoid taking a deep breath; I didn't want him to move. I gently lay my fingers along his back and he relaxed, pulling me tighter to him.

"I dunno what to do about that," he whispered back, and I wasn't sure if I imagined the seductiveness, but nonetheless, he was still sincere. I closed my eyes and pressed my cheek against his shoulder.

"Will you stay up with me?" I asked. It was a lot to ask: sleep was important, especially to Fred. I looked up at him and he straightened in surprise but nodded without pause and stepped aside, allowing me into the area before the fire. I sat down on the floor in front of the couch, after sliding off the pants; my bare legs helped relieve the constricted feeling in my body. Fred's too long shirt covered the top of my thighs, but just barely, and Fred glanced at me and away as he sat down, obviously trying to be sensitive.

"It's ok, you know," he said quietly, staring at the fire. He had a soft intensity in his voice but didn't seem to be able to look at me. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Now he put an arm around me and my breath caught in my throat. The words weren't going to be recorded in a book of great speeches, but the tone is what made all the difference. It was the understanding, the patience, the kind of feeling Fred reserved for only the most important people in his life. I'd heard him use it when he talked, really, deeply talked, to his mum about Percy; or when George was particularly worried about something. He'd used the same tone when we'd stayed at the Burrow and Ginny had woken up with nightmares from the Ministry and he'd been the only one to hear her. This was a tone I never thought I'd hear used toward me.

It also lifted my depression about fifty percent. Fred knew it wasn't my fault; it really wasn't as bad as I'd thought. It was an accident, and I wasn't to blame. And I was safe. He was going to keep me safe. I laid my head on his chest again, hoping I wasn't overstepping my boundaries. Though it was, in all honesty, a little difficult to care at the moment because I had a difficult time caring about anything when Fred was touching me in any way, let alone in this way. I watched him, and took in the shape of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, how his eyes crinkled a bit when he took a deep breath, like he was concentrating really hard on something. Staring at him, I realized I was exhausted.

"I am tired," I admitted softly, and lay down in front of him before he could say a word. There was barely a moment of hesitation before he too lay down. I fell asleep, after intertwining his hand with mine, clutching it tightly. I wouldn't tell him immediately, because there was a bit of 'later' left. I didn't want to ruin this feeling quite yet, not if it wasn't going to amount to anything.