8 December, 1997

"George, is that you?" Fred called from the kitchen, having heard the front door of their flat open and shut. "You're back quick, I just finished dinner."

He poured water into his glass and then paused, listening. There wasn't any sound from the other room save for the quiet rustling of outerwear being shed and shoes kicked off.

"Georgie?"

He slowly set his cup on the counter, hand hovering over the pocket that held his wand, and stepped out of the kitchen, moving slowly down the hallway and into the living room. George was there, sitting on the edge of one of the armchairs with his elbows braced on his knees and a grim expression on his face.

"What?" Fred asked, stomach dropping and dread immediately coiling in his chest. "What's happened?"

A different Fred in a different life would have jokingly asked who died, but that was all too real a possibility.

George shook his head, as if he were trying to clear it or jiggle something into place. "Nothing – nothing is wrong, everyone is okay. As far as I know, at least, everyone is okay."

Fred breathed a small sigh of relief at that, but generally remained apprehensive because something was very clearly off. "Merlin's tits, don't do that. What's the matter with you, then?"

George bulled in a deep breath and got up, running a haphazard hand through his hair before navigating around the chair to stand in front of Fred. "I'll tell you, but I need you to give me your wand first."

"What?" Fred asked sharply, half-smiling in disbelief with his hand still hanging near his pocket. He'd question Polyjuice, but the wards on the upstairs were such that an imposter wouldn't be able to easily gain entry, not without making quite a ruckus in the process. "Why do you need my wand?"

"Do you trust me?" George asked, hand remaining doggedly outstretched.

"What the hell kind of question is that?" Fred shot back, tense and increasingly unnerved as he searched for signs of the imperius curse or some other sort of bewitchment. There wasn't anything to see, though; his twin's eyes, so like his own, were worried but clear. "Of course I trust you. That doesn't explain why you need my wand."

"Fred," George said sharply. It wasn't really a question, nor was it a command. A plea, perhaps?

He wavered for another second before reached into his pocket and extracting the length of cedarwood, flipping it dexterously and setting the handle in George's outstretched palm. It was tucked from sight almost immediately.

"Tell me what's going on," Fred outright demanded, "Now."

"Any chance I could get you to sit down?" George tried half-heartedly. When Fred didn't move so much as an inch, he sighed one last time and then, outwardly bracing himself, blurted, "Ron is at Shell Cottage."

A swarm of emotions and reactions flickered through Fred's head as he comprehended what he'd just been told, but at the fore was simple confusion.

"Blimey, Gred, what are they doing there? Are they okay? Is Hermione – ?"

He cut off when he saw that George was shaking his head fervently, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world at that moment.

"It's not them, Fred. It's Ron. It's just Ron."

"I don't – what do you mean it's just Ron?" He felt stupid asking because it was a fairly simple combination of words that, under any other circumstances, should make sense. They simply didn't.

"Harry and Hermione aren't there, they aren't at the cottage. It's only Ron, he… he left them."

These words, on the other hand, made perfect, crystalline, horrifying sense. Fred heard them resonating around the inside of his head for a moment, like the drawn-out toll of a gong.

He left them. Ron left them. Wherever they were, whatever they'd been doing, the trio was no longer a trio. It was just Harry and Hermione, now. Four eyes instead of six. Two wands instead of three. Zero Weasleys instead of one.

Fred pressed his lips together, feeling his teeth cut into soft flesh as he tried to maintain composure.

"George, give me my wand back," he commanded levelly, reaching forward. His fingertips were shaking.

His brother shook his head, keeping a hand over the pocket where it was hidden and taking a step back.

"George," he repeated more forcefully, "Give me my wand, now."

"I can't do it, mate," George replied grimly, a muscle in his jaw jumping as his whole body tensed.

"Give me my fucking wand!" Fred demanded again, shouting it this time. George stepped back further as Fred's voice rang around the apartment and then, without a hint of sound reasoning, Fred lunged forward.

"Fred, stop it! You're not thinking!" George yelled over the crashing of a lamp being capsized and a framed photograph falling to the floor and shattering. Fred caught a handful of his brother's jumper and, knocking forcefully into an end table, they both tumbled to the ground.

"I'm thinking just fine," Fred gritted out, grappling and trying to get a hand free. "I'm thinking that I need to kill Ron!"

It might have been funny taken in the context of an innocuous sibling rivalry, but given that his brother, who he'd trusted to stay with Harry, with Hermione, was apparently a gutless traitor, the situation was distinctly lacking in humor. In fact, as Fred's fist arched up and made contact with George's jaw, he thought it might be one of the singularly least-funny moments of his life.

"Are you fucking serious?!" George bellowed, scarcely keeping Fred at bay with one arm and cupping his face with the other hand. He threw a knee hard into Fred's stomach, who groaned in pain, and took the opportunity to shove his twin off of him, sprawling onto the floor a couple feet away and dragging himself backward. "Get ahold of yourself! He's our bloody brother, Fred!"

"I don't care that he's my brother!" Fred shouted back. "She's my everything! George, she's my – she's – fuck!"

His voice cracked and Fred shifted until he was on all fours, coughing hard and trying to catch his breath. He glanced up and saw George propped on his side with an expression that was no longer grim, but rather sympathetic, if slightly pained. There was already a red mark blooming along the side of his face where Fred had struck him, and it was silent for a long moment.

"I know that," George finally said, breathing hard. And he did. Furious as he was, betrayed as he felt, Fred knew that he did. Because if it was Angie, George would be doing the exact same thing. "I know. You aren't the only one that loves her, Freddie. But it won't do any good, going over there. They apparate and move every couple days, and Ron has been separated from them for weeks. He couldn't find his way back if he tried."

Fred chewed on this for a moment before he nodded, surprised to find his eyes stinging and prickling at the corners. He swiped a frustrated arm over his face.

"Why? Why did he leave them?" His voice sounded hollow and foreign. There wasn't a reason in the universe that would be good enough, but he wanted to know anyway.

"Bill said he wouldn't talk about it," George replied, sitting up and dabbing at the blood beading beneath a small split in his lip. "I didn't even make it inside, he came out to tell me when I got to the edge of the property. I was furious, too, you know. I wanted to go inside, but Ron doesn't want anyone to know he's there. If it's any consolation, Bill said Fleur very nearly ripped him apart when he showed up the other day."

Of course he wouldn't want anyone to know. Who would want to advertise that they deserted their friends when things got too hard?

A new thought occurred to Fred as his breathing began to return to normal, one formerly concealed by emotion.

"Give me my wand," Fred said again, rolling his eyes when his twin twitched backward as if preparing for another hit. "I'm not going to go anywhere, I swear, just hand it over. Please."

George deliberated and then, with a look that screamed uncertainty, reached into his pocket and extracted both of their wands, handing Fred his and keeping his own ready, just in case.

Fred ignored him, though, instead wrenching up the sleeve of his shirt.

"Are you okay?" he asked, pressing the tip of his wand to the small silver plate fastened there. George tried to question what he was doing, but he waved him off and waited, holding his breath.

While he waited, he picked up the broken photograph on the floor beside him. It was from that past New Year's Eve, all of them standing in front of the fireplace. Hermione was tucked beneath his arm, laughing and looking up at him like she didn't have a care in the world.

Over her head was a spiderweb of shattered glass.

It was only a matter of seconds before the reply came, warm against his wrist, but it felt like a small eternity.

I'm okay. We're okay. I love you.