Third year at Hogwarts.
They have discovered yet another secret passageway, yet another amazing phenomenon of magic.
The Mirror of Erised.
"It's actually 'desire' written backwards," says Fred.
George only looks uncertain. "I don't see anything particularly 'desirable',"
Unless I consider a normal reflection on a normal mirror desirable.
His injury is not one caused by magic.
When George found him, he had only seen a pale hand, limp and lifeless, under the crushing weight of the stone wall that had collapsed on him.
As he rushed toward him, the massive chunks of stones were being flung away from the person it was crushing at a pace so ridiculous it seemed as though it had exploded from its centre.
It was wandless magic. And he was unaware of him doing it, as was he unaware of how Ron and Percy and Harry and Hermione were all frantically doing the same at a pace much slower than his, of how they had whirled around and wept wretchedly when they saw him, of how they were not surprised by his blind rage.
And then he had fallen to his knees and gathered him to his chest and disappeared from the place.
When they apparated into a dark little alley, somewhere George knew must be muggle part of London, he saw the blood that kept flowing in rivulets down his pale, still face, realized how warm he still felt..
His hand found its way to his chest, and he spread his fingers, much like how Fred had felt him, the heart beating in him, mere hours ago..
It was feeble. But it was there. And it was not the time to dwell on how he felt nothing, nothing of that inexplicable something that connected them.
How dead it felt.
In a frantic whoosh of wind, they were gone from there. When they appeared back, it was before a well known muggle hospital, for St. Mungo's was a battleground.
And now, he waits.
"Mr. Weasley."
He snaps his head up, his eyes wide, his lips parted in a sharp intake of breath. His extremities have gone cold and numb, and his heart beats in one throbbing, slow thud after another.
"Yes," he whispers. The doctor seems grim. They have not yet questioned him on the nature and the cause of the accident. All they have done is focus solely on clutching back Fred's rapidly slipping life.
"We cannot assure you anything as of now. It will be another forty eight hours before we can conclude on anything."
They have all noticed how the person in the Intensive Care Unit, plugged onto life with a myriad tiny tubes and muggle contraptions, is a living copy of him.
That is the reason why, perhaps, they all seem doubly intent, doubly committed, as they try to keep him from slipping away.
That is the reason perhaps why the doctor sits beside him and holds him when he finally lets himself weep, overcome by the sheer ordeal.
The muggle way sure is slow, but that is the only thing that has been a timely help.
They win the war. George sends a patronus after those forty eight hours, revealing their location. His entire family and friends flocks into the hospital almost the next second, creating a wave of shock and confusion in the hospital that has to be curbed with a few dozen obliviate charms.
And then it is only a matter of time before Madam Pomfrey does her best and heals Fred's injuries completely.
Only thing is, its like mending a broken glass.
With magic, its pace a thousand times faster than the muggle way, the injuries he sustained to his head, his lungs, and his bones were mended all within two week's time.
And now, as George sits by his bed side, he holds his hand delicately, and watches his face.
He is pale, pale as snow, his red hair clashing violently with his pallor. They're long now, and George hasn't bothered to cut his either.
Because they are supposed to be in sync...
And even if George isn't as pale as him, as gaunt as him, even if he isn't losing his vigour with him – as they are supposed to, as their bond ensures to – he tries, tries hard to be in sync.
He hadn't had the time that day to dwell on how he had felt nothing, nothing of that inexplicable something that connected them.
How dead it felt.
And now as he waits, waits day in and day out, waits through sleepless nights for a tiny movement, for a soft sound from those still lips, for a small frown to mar that serene face, time is all he has - endless, silent stretches of time.
His family speaks only softly with him, touches him gently – gentle nudges to bring him out of his self-imposed restrain, out of the wall he has been building around himself, isolating himself with him. Him, his other half, his only reason for living, who has become tantamount to silence, to bleakness - things completely opposite to what he used to be.
And even if it seems like forcing the bond to revive, like prodding something lifeless and hoping for it to stir, he would never stop this forcing, not even if it meant he would be sitting here, holding his hand delicately, sliding his fingers softly through his hair, watching his face – until death parts them, this time for real, unfalteringly, rather than poorly hacking at one of their necks and then leaving the both of them bleeding, leaving behind a dead bond...
Dare he call it that? A dead bond?
He cannot say that he doesn't care about that. For he does care, he is dying piece by piece as he grieves, as their past throbs like a fresh wound in him.
He is still beautiful, heartwrenchingly so, like a sculpture chiselled to perfection. George stares at him every hour of every day, and he could keep doing it forever.
He is taken back to the intense memories that he stir.
His twin. His lover.
Dominant. Brusque. Unpredictable. Hot headed.
Cold. Aloof. Fiery. Passionate. Witty and humorous and dark and morbid.
George could pull his sheets up all he want in the nights when they'd lain together on the bed, drown in shame; or was it shame? As he stares at him, he is convinced now that it wasn't shame. It was the heat, the sheer nerves that Fred brought forth by the simplest of touches, the shortest utterances. He could drown in the heat all he want, and Fred would just...take him. No consent asked, not after the once asked for the first time on their first night.
No permissions, no prelude.
Against the wall, held unrelentingly by the wrists, crowded in quickly, kisses pressed to his neck, filth whispered into his ear; taken, over and over, until he forgot all the right and wrong. On the table, dropping whatever they held in their hands as madness overtook them, kissing heatedly, angrily, and Fred would ask him if he were ashamed, like he ought to be, or if he were sick like Fred, in love with his brother.
And when he would be mellow, when he would be overcome with love, he would keep him awake until the dawn as he kept at it slowly, endlessly; a fire that burned long.
That's when he would ask him if he loved him, not angrily. That's when he would cry softly, kiss him softly.
George traces gentle fingers down the side of his inexpressive face.
And sheds silent tears yet again.
One more chp to go.