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Feb. 11th, 2004 12:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thrihyrneFinished the rather sad Weasley twins story, "Together, Alone."
No really, I don't ask for such dark images. Then again, they say you only hurt the ones you love.
Rating: R, for foul-mouthed Fred and George and character death. I can write a funeral, if nothing else. Oh, the joy of writing into the void.
Together, Alone
August 22, 1996
They had been working in the joke shop when the attack hit. Two Death Eaters came blasting through the door, Tongue-Tying Toadstools and all sorts of clever merchandise flying from the shelves in a splintering hail of noise and shards of glass. The two unfortunate customers were dead in a moment, a sickening green haze dissipating from their still forms into the riotous cacophony of the shop.
Fred and George Weasley ran to each other's sides and stood, shaking with adrenaline and fear, two left hands holding wands pointed at the intruders. They were fast, but they had also been caught off guard, and seconds later they found their wands had been captured by the hooded figures who strode quickly toward them. George soundly punched the chest of the one who grabbed him around the neck, and the Death Eater gasped, but he was undeterred. Then the floor swirled from under him and with sudden wrenching recognition, George realized that the restraining baton that had been shoved into his gut and he had grasped ahold of by instinct, was a portkey.
While his mind frantically tried to wrap itself around what was happening, hard ground reassembled itself under his feet and he was thrown to an earthen floor. It was dark, but not pitch black, and George could hear the labored breathing of the Death Eater who had kicked him to the ground. Suddenly two more people appeared. Fred. He knew his presence even before he heard the thud as his twin was unceremoniously shoved toward him.
George scrabbled toward his brother, anger and shock ricocheting through his scattered thoughts, still grabbing futilely for his absent wand.
"What the fuck?!" he heard Fred roar, rising to his knees before a hex hit him and he crashed back to the floor.
One of the two cloaked Death Eaters stood staring at them, oddly feral eyes shining in the dim light.
"We need some information," a feminine voice purred as George found Fred and held him as he writhed in pain, groaning repetitive obscenities. "You two know Hogwarts inside and out, and we need a discreet way into the castle." As she paused, there was a crack! and the other wizard disapparated. "This can be a brief process, or a long and painful one." Fred moaned while George tried to sit up straight, one arm still clutching to his twin.
"We won't tell you anything!" George spat, then found himself panting anxiously as he felt a wand tip pressed to his chest, the cat-like motions of the hooded wizard stunningly quick and deathly intimate.
"We will see about that," she replied, running the wand up his tense neck along his pulsing veins, under his chin, and then tucking it under her robe. She turned and left the small room, murmuring a spell before approaching the door, which she then closed deliberately behind her. "Are you okay?" George asked his brother, who sat up gingerly.
"Bloody hell, no," Fred replied, rubbing his chest with a freckled hand. "Where are we? What do they think we know about Hogwarts that they can't find out on their own?"
George shook his head, retracing the path on his neck where the Death Eater's wand had travelled with his index finger. "The shop," he moaned.
"How can you think about the shop?" Fred stared at him. "There are two dead people in it right now," he continued, pulling his knees into his chest. "Dad'll be ballistic, getting Ministry people to find out who attacked us, finding out where we are; mum'll be…"
His voice trailed off.
George knew what Fred was thinking as surely as though the words had been spoken in his own head. It was an affirming, familiar sensation; comforting, even, if he gave it any notice, which ordinarily he didn't. It was just part of being a twin, of being two parts of one whole, of heard words unspoken, of simply being in tandem. Always.
"Worried," George finished the sentence.
Fred threaded a hand through his ginger hair. "Crying at the kitchen table."
Silence hung heavy in the room, stifling like the locker room after a lost Quidditch match.
"Shit, I'm scared," George growled as he stood up and began pacing the room. "How long d'you think it'll take the Ministry to find us?"
Fred shrugged, his hands clutching at his knees under his robe. quot;Dunno. It was done in broad daylight- they weren't secretive about it at all. But we could be anywhere." He stared at George in the gloom, his blue eyes conveying both anger and rising panic. "I'm scared too," he said, a slight tremor in his voice. "No wands, no food, don't know where in bollocks we are…"
"I have a couple of chocolate frogs," George said helpfully. "In an inside pocket of my robe."
Fred grunted in appreciation as a packet was tossed to him. He chewed quietly as he got up and the twins explored the small confines of their prison.
"What time is it?" Fred asked, grasping at his bare wrist.
"Time to get the hell out of here," George muttered, looking at his watch. "Two forty-three," he said.
George tilted his head, looking anxiously at Fred. "She didn't say when she was coming back, did she?" His skin crawled at the memory of the Death Eater crouched in front of him, the wooden point of her wand journeying along his prominent jugular.
Fred shook his head and shoved his hands into his pants pockets. "I'm glad they took us both, " he said thoughtfully. "That way you can hide behind the door when she come back and I'll divert her, then you can- "
"Can what?" George's voice was incredulous. "No wands, no weapons. What?"
"You gave that other Death Eater a pretty wicked punch," Fred replied, a wan smile on his face. "I saw it before the bitch hexed me and I couldn't see anymore. Nice one."
George snickered, though his face was troubled. "Thanks." He walked over to his brother and stared intently at him, vaguely knowing the turmoil in Fred's mind as surely as the thoughts which roiled in his own. "But really. D'you have a plan?"
Fred's face was wan, the beginnings of a bruise visible on his cheekbone even in the dim light. He shrugged. "My plan is to hope that Dad gets to Bill before Percy finds out." Younger by mere minutes, Fred's temper flared more quickly than George's. After placing a reassuring hand on George's shoulder, Fred strode to the door and started beating on it. "We don't know anything, you fucking soul-sucking, Death-Eating idiots! We have family in the Ministry! You can go to hellaaaarrrrrmmggggh."
His tirade had been stopped as George clamped a hand roughly over his mouth.
"Shut up!" he hissed. "Your other plan was better."
Fred roughly shouldered his twin behind him and loosed himself, anger raging across his face as he turned around. "Surely you don't think they are actually listening."
George put his hands to his waist under his robe, threading his thumbs through the beltloops of his jeans, then stared at his shoes. "No," he replied, beaten. "I don't." He turned and walked to the other side of the room, then began inspecting every inch of wall.
Muttering more epithets, Fred started on the other side of the room.
***
It was eleven o'clock when the feline-seeming Death Eater came into the room. The twins were ready for her, Fred in the corner behind the door and George catty-corner in the other. They both sprang, but mere moments and three hastily incanted spells later, George was writhing on the floor and Fred was following her against his will, trapped in an immobilus spell.
"Fred!" George rasped, his mind reeling in agony from the crutacious curse which had been uttered his way seemingly with no feeling whatsoever, but the effect belied the intent behind the steely voice.
Then he was alone.
Not until five in the morning was his brother returned to him. The Death Eater walked in, Fred shuffling before her, almost bowed in half.
"What have you done to him?" George yelled in shock as Fred staggered into his arms.
"Ask him, why don't you?" she replied icily. "Perhaps you could encourage him to answer questions more readily or we'll have to use more aggressive measures."
The door shut securely as George sank under Fred's weight. "Fred." He shuffled back to a wall and eased them both to the ground. "Fred." His twin shook his head slightly.
"Thank Merlin," George babbled. "Say something! Anything." He leaned in, smoothing the unruly mess of red hair, then sucked in his breath as Fred opened his eyes. They were the color of red wine, save the pupils and a vague aura of blue where the pupils would be.
"Can't see, George," Fred murmured, as though he were miles away. "Sleep. Gotta sleep."
He twisted sideways, nestling his head at the crook of George's thighs, then fell soundly asleep.
George wanted to vomit, but found instead that he sat unspeaking with Fred's head in his lap, heaving with sobs and feeling for the first time in his life, utterly alone.
***
This went on for the next seventy-two unbearable hours; the same cycle, the same times of kidnapping and relinquishing. George now regretted having his watch, as it unfeelingly reminded him of the weight of every second that passed. He tried throwing it against the wall after his third unsuccessful attempt to get the Death Eater to take him instead of Fred. Even through the haze of pain from a doubly-issued curse, he tried chewing on the glass of his timepiece, and once he came to himself an hour or so later, he succumbed to beating it against the earthen wall.
He had never felt more helpless in his life. Some not utterly foul food and water had been sent in with Fred so they wouldn't starve, but George was weak with fear and broken down with anguish over Fred's torture. Each time Fred returned he was worse, usually making vague mutterings about being turned inside out and then falling straight to sleep.
At other times, George woke up, hearing Fred mumbling in words long lost to him, phrases that he had thought neither of them could remember. It was not uncommon for twins, identical twins in particular, whether Wizards or Muggle, to create their own languages, and in that sense Fred and George were absolutely unremarkable. During the three hundred and sixty minutes when he was left alone, George wracked his brain to remember any of it. His blue eyes bored through the ceiling, as he lay on his back, forcing himself through every day they had shared; every memory, good or bad, the aching years of the mundane splintered with joys indescribable, so that he could relay them to Fred when he was returned to him.
But only Fred seemed able to remember the language from their babyhood.
The fourth morning Fred was shoved through the door and he collapsed on the floor in a half-clad heap.
George rushed to retrieve him and as he did, he felt the wandtip of the Death Eater on his throat.
"Useless," she spoke, calmly. "We're through with him. But perhaps what they say about identical twins is untrue."
George raised his gaze, anger coursing through him, though he remained mute.
"We'll be back for you tonight."
As she shut the door fear sank into his stomach, but he forced his attentions to Fred. He looked only half-alive, and his skin was an alarming shade of grey, the freckles standing out like a connect-the-dots game gone horribly wrong.
"Fred," George whispered, curling up behind him as he discovered that his brother's skin was covered in a sheen of cold sweat. "Fred. Fred. Answer me!" he demanded, shaking his shoulder.
"Whazzit?" Fred replied, distant. "S'cold, George. So cold." He turned his head slightly, and George saw his sightless eyes, and held his breath. "You're warm," Fred exhaled, releasing his body backward into George's embrace. "Thank you."
George lay on the ground, sheltering Fred, talking quietly and nonstop about Quidditch, about the shop, about the girl he knew Fred fancied and what she would look like in a really short skirt, all while his tears ran into Fred's shirt, occasionally wiping his nose on his own filthy robe. He stopped after some time, shaking his brother to make sure he was still alive. "Stay awake, you bastard. Don't you dare leave me." He shook until Fred moaned something incomprehensible, then, reassured, George allowed himself to close his eyes.
***
A crashing boom and shockingly bright light shook George into instant consciousness. Out of instinct, he buried his head into Fred's neck, his arm sheltering him. The next few minutes were chaos; voices shouting, figures rushing around the prison, but to George's surprise, no curses were hurled at his adrenaline-shaken and jaw-clenched body. Instead, strong and warm hands found a hold on his shoulder, and he sensed a benevolent force behind him, not-unfriendly knees curving into his unsheltered back.
"Fred?"
George was unwilling to let loose of his twin, the part of him truer than his own shadow, and so he turned his head, his eyes mere slits against the too-bright glow from the doorway. "No, you idiot," he croaked, his throat raw from crying the night before. "I have bigger ears, Bill." He turned back to Fred, and laid his own terribly heavy head on the ground. His arms shaking with relief, he rubbed his hand at Fred's ribs while mumbling, "Wake up. Rescued."
There was no response. George found his senses suddenly taut, and he used his whole body to wriggle against Fred. "No, Fred, no," he whispered, feeling those unusually warm hands on his spine again. "No."
Somewhere in the back of his mind where a shred of lucidity lingered, he heard the unmistakable sound of Ron throwing up.
***
He stood, oddly calm, silently thanking Remus Lupin, of all people, for having offered him a quick swig of something frighteningly potent from a flask which he just happened to have hidden under a rather shabby overcoat.
George cleared his throat, then looking down at his notes, began to speak, his voice a deadened shade of melancholy.
"And I moved forward, because you must live
Forward, which is away from whatever
It was that you had, though you think when you have it
That it will stay with you forever."
Molly Weasley choked, the sound carrying through the unexpected sticky heat on the greensward. George clamped his mouth shut and set his jaw, turning only briefly to nod brusquely at someone who had not been a close friend to them, someone who they hadn't even really known well at all. But she knew, more than anyone else in attendance, what terrors he faced, why he would no longer look into mirrors, why he was so distant.
She was almost an anti-Weasley; creamy, blemish-free ivory skin, dark hair. Clad head to toe in black, she looked every bit the returning Ravenclaw prefect that she would be in mere weeks. All was perfect, save her bloodshot eyes. She turned her reddened globes to George Weasley as he stepped down from the podium and she mounted the stairs in his place, then looked out at the small assembly.
"To have a twin is to be different, and yet, never to doubt oneself," she began, "because there is always a part of you with whom you can confide, and not have to explain."
Padma Patil looked worriedly for a moment at George, who nodded, then turned his gaze out somewhere above the heads of the people who sat in uncomfortable white chairs.
"Perhaps even more than husband and wife, sibling relations can be exceptionally intimate; the most dire of enemies, also the closest of friends. But the relationship of twins goes beyond speech, beyond self."
She paused for a moment, her manicured nails grasping the wooden structure before her. "Fred Weasley shall be forever remembered, and George and all of the Weasley family will pay most dearly for his loss. Do not forget," she continued, eyes lit like coals newly extracted from a fire, "that the Dark Lord is both fickle and uncaring, and this funeral could be for George instead of Fred."
A hush smothered the few comments which had been murmured after her outburst.
Suddenly deflated, Padma sighed, "That's all I have to say, and it was already too much." She clomped as elegantly as possible down the three stairs in high heels, then was grasped in a suffocating hug by her twin sister Pavarti.
George continued to stare at the sun, which resolutely continued to set, and he was sure it would rise again, despite his decided disinterest in anything at all.
***
They both leaned back in their chairs, their absurdly cold and unshod feet propped on the metal railing despite the unseasonal chill wind which breezed across the porch of Ron's Glasgow flat.
"To Fred," Ron toasted, raising his glass to George's.
"To Fred," George replied.
They tossed back the peaty single malt which they had every year, though it was much less expensively purchased in Scotland than back in London, where George had been living until recently.
"Shit, that's still ruddy good scotch!" George breathed out, the fumes from his mouth almost visible in the keening air.
Ron nodded his head and took another puff off of his cigarette. "There are a few advantages, mate, to living in Scotland." He looked meaningfully at his brother, and offered him part of his fag.
George shook his head, but smiled softly.
"I'm sure," he replied, then watched Ron take a deep drag. "That's quite a habit you have going there, Ron."
Ron shrugged. "Until Hermione leaves me, I won't be giving it up. There are worse things, y'know." He winked, but dropped the cigarette to the cement and stared at it. "I would grind that out, but…" he looked meaningfully at his bare foot.
George rolled his eyes. "Kick it over the side."
Red hair glistened in the dark as Ron did as he was bidden, and within moments the air was clear again, fraught with memory.
"More?" Ron eyed the bottle of Oban.
George nodded ruefully.
"I'm drinking for two."
*******
The poem that George Weasley quotes is from W. S. Merwin's poem, "Green With Beasts," 1956, found in The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, © 1973.
No really, I don't ask for such dark images. Then again, they say you only hurt the ones you love.
Rating: R, for foul-mouthed Fred and George and character death. I can write a funeral, if nothing else. Oh, the joy of writing into the void.
August 22, 1996
They had been working in the joke shop when the attack hit. Two Death Eaters came blasting through the door, Tongue-Tying Toadstools and all sorts of clever merchandise flying from the shelves in a splintering hail of noise and shards of glass. The two unfortunate customers were dead in a moment, a sickening green haze dissipating from their still forms into the riotous cacophony of the shop.
Fred and George Weasley ran to each other's sides and stood, shaking with adrenaline and fear, two left hands holding wands pointed at the intruders. They were fast, but they had also been caught off guard, and seconds later they found their wands had been captured by the hooded figures who strode quickly toward them. George soundly punched the chest of the one who grabbed him around the neck, and the Death Eater gasped, but he was undeterred. Then the floor swirled from under him and with sudden wrenching recognition, George realized that the restraining baton that had been shoved into his gut and he had grasped ahold of by instinct, was a portkey.
While his mind frantically tried to wrap itself around what was happening, hard ground reassembled itself under his feet and he was thrown to an earthen floor. It was dark, but not pitch black, and George could hear the labored breathing of the Death Eater who had kicked him to the ground. Suddenly two more people appeared. Fred. He knew his presence even before he heard the thud as his twin was unceremoniously shoved toward him.
George scrabbled toward his brother, anger and shock ricocheting through his scattered thoughts, still grabbing futilely for his absent wand.
"What the fuck?!" he heard Fred roar, rising to his knees before a hex hit him and he crashed back to the floor.
One of the two cloaked Death Eaters stood staring at them, oddly feral eyes shining in the dim light.
"We need some information," a feminine voice purred as George found Fred and held him as he writhed in pain, groaning repetitive obscenities. "You two know Hogwarts inside and out, and we need a discreet way into the castle." As she paused, there was a crack! and the other wizard disapparated. "This can be a brief process, or a long and painful one." Fred moaned while George tried to sit up straight, one arm still clutching to his twin.
"We won't tell you anything!" George spat, then found himself panting anxiously as he felt a wand tip pressed to his chest, the cat-like motions of the hooded wizard stunningly quick and deathly intimate.
"We will see about that," she replied, running the wand up his tense neck along his pulsing veins, under his chin, and then tucking it under her robe. She turned and left the small room, murmuring a spell before approaching the door, which she then closed deliberately behind her. "Are you okay?" George asked his brother, who sat up gingerly.
"Bloody hell, no," Fred replied, rubbing his chest with a freckled hand. "Where are we? What do they think we know about Hogwarts that they can't find out on their own?"
George shook his head, retracing the path on his neck where the Death Eater's wand had travelled with his index finger. "The shop," he moaned.
"How can you think about the shop?" Fred stared at him. "There are two dead people in it right now," he continued, pulling his knees into his chest. "Dad'll be ballistic, getting Ministry people to find out who attacked us, finding out where we are; mum'll be…"
His voice trailed off.
George knew what Fred was thinking as surely as though the words had been spoken in his own head. It was an affirming, familiar sensation; comforting, even, if he gave it any notice, which ordinarily he didn't. It was just part of being a twin, of being two parts of one whole, of heard words unspoken, of simply being in tandem. Always.
"Worried," George finished the sentence.
Fred threaded a hand through his ginger hair. "Crying at the kitchen table."
Silence hung heavy in the room, stifling like the locker room after a lost Quidditch match.
"Shit, I'm scared," George growled as he stood up and began pacing the room. "How long d'you think it'll take the Ministry to find us?"
Fred shrugged, his hands clutching at his knees under his robe. quot;Dunno. It was done in broad daylight- they weren't secretive about it at all. But we could be anywhere." He stared at George in the gloom, his blue eyes conveying both anger and rising panic. "I'm scared too," he said, a slight tremor in his voice. "No wands, no food, don't know where in bollocks we are…"
"I have a couple of chocolate frogs," George said helpfully. "In an inside pocket of my robe."
Fred grunted in appreciation as a packet was tossed to him. He chewed quietly as he got up and the twins explored the small confines of their prison.
"What time is it?" Fred asked, grasping at his bare wrist.
"Time to get the hell out of here," George muttered, looking at his watch. "Two forty-three," he said.
George tilted his head, looking anxiously at Fred. "She didn't say when she was coming back, did she?" His skin crawled at the memory of the Death Eater crouched in front of him, the wooden point of her wand journeying along his prominent jugular.
Fred shook his head and shoved his hands into his pants pockets. "I'm glad they took us both, " he said thoughtfully. "That way you can hide behind the door when she come back and I'll divert her, then you can- "
"Can what?" George's voice was incredulous. "No wands, no weapons. What?"
"You gave that other Death Eater a pretty wicked punch," Fred replied, a wan smile on his face. "I saw it before the bitch hexed me and I couldn't see anymore. Nice one."
George snickered, though his face was troubled. "Thanks." He walked over to his brother and stared intently at him, vaguely knowing the turmoil in Fred's mind as surely as the thoughts which roiled in his own. "But really. D'you have a plan?"
Fred's face was wan, the beginnings of a bruise visible on his cheekbone even in the dim light. He shrugged. "My plan is to hope that Dad gets to Bill before Percy finds out." Younger by mere minutes, Fred's temper flared more quickly than George's. After placing a reassuring hand on George's shoulder, Fred strode to the door and started beating on it. "We don't know anything, you fucking soul-sucking, Death-Eating idiots! We have family in the Ministry! You can go to hellaaaarrrrrmmggggh."
His tirade had been stopped as George clamped a hand roughly over his mouth.
"Shut up!" he hissed. "Your other plan was better."
Fred roughly shouldered his twin behind him and loosed himself, anger raging across his face as he turned around. "Surely you don't think they are actually listening."
George put his hands to his waist under his robe, threading his thumbs through the beltloops of his jeans, then stared at his shoes. "No," he replied, beaten. "I don't." He turned and walked to the other side of the room, then began inspecting every inch of wall.
Muttering more epithets, Fred started on the other side of the room.
***
It was eleven o'clock when the feline-seeming Death Eater came into the room. The twins were ready for her, Fred in the corner behind the door and George catty-corner in the other. They both sprang, but mere moments and three hastily incanted spells later, George was writhing on the floor and Fred was following her against his will, trapped in an immobilus spell.
"Fred!" George rasped, his mind reeling in agony from the crutacious curse which had been uttered his way seemingly with no feeling whatsoever, but the effect belied the intent behind the steely voice.
Then he was alone.
Not until five in the morning was his brother returned to him. The Death Eater walked in, Fred shuffling before her, almost bowed in half.
"What have you done to him?" George yelled in shock as Fred staggered into his arms.
"Ask him, why don't you?" she replied icily. "Perhaps you could encourage him to answer questions more readily or we'll have to use more aggressive measures."
The door shut securely as George sank under Fred's weight. "Fred." He shuffled back to a wall and eased them both to the ground. "Fred." His twin shook his head slightly.
"Thank Merlin," George babbled. "Say something! Anything." He leaned in, smoothing the unruly mess of red hair, then sucked in his breath as Fred opened his eyes. They were the color of red wine, save the pupils and a vague aura of blue where the pupils would be.
"Can't see, George," Fred murmured, as though he were miles away. "Sleep. Gotta sleep."
He twisted sideways, nestling his head at the crook of George's thighs, then fell soundly asleep.
George wanted to vomit, but found instead that he sat unspeaking with Fred's head in his lap, heaving with sobs and feeling for the first time in his life, utterly alone.
***
This went on for the next seventy-two unbearable hours; the same cycle, the same times of kidnapping and relinquishing. George now regretted having his watch, as it unfeelingly reminded him of the weight of every second that passed. He tried throwing it against the wall after his third unsuccessful attempt to get the Death Eater to take him instead of Fred. Even through the haze of pain from a doubly-issued curse, he tried chewing on the glass of his timepiece, and once he came to himself an hour or so later, he succumbed to beating it against the earthen wall.
He had never felt more helpless in his life. Some not utterly foul food and water had been sent in with Fred so they wouldn't starve, but George was weak with fear and broken down with anguish over Fred's torture. Each time Fred returned he was worse, usually making vague mutterings about being turned inside out and then falling straight to sleep.
At other times, George woke up, hearing Fred mumbling in words long lost to him, phrases that he had thought neither of them could remember. It was not uncommon for twins, identical twins in particular, whether Wizards or Muggle, to create their own languages, and in that sense Fred and George were absolutely unremarkable. During the three hundred and sixty minutes when he was left alone, George wracked his brain to remember any of it. His blue eyes bored through the ceiling, as he lay on his back, forcing himself through every day they had shared; every memory, good or bad, the aching years of the mundane splintered with joys indescribable, so that he could relay them to Fred when he was returned to him.
But only Fred seemed able to remember the language from their babyhood.
The fourth morning Fred was shoved through the door and he collapsed on the floor in a half-clad heap.
George rushed to retrieve him and as he did, he felt the wandtip of the Death Eater on his throat.
"Useless," she spoke, calmly. "We're through with him. But perhaps what they say about identical twins is untrue."
George raised his gaze, anger coursing through him, though he remained mute.
"We'll be back for you tonight."
As she shut the door fear sank into his stomach, but he forced his attentions to Fred. He looked only half-alive, and his skin was an alarming shade of grey, the freckles standing out like a connect-the-dots game gone horribly wrong.
"Fred," George whispered, curling up behind him as he discovered that his brother's skin was covered in a sheen of cold sweat. "Fred. Fred. Answer me!" he demanded, shaking his shoulder.
"Whazzit?" Fred replied, distant. "S'cold, George. So cold." He turned his head slightly, and George saw his sightless eyes, and held his breath. "You're warm," Fred exhaled, releasing his body backward into George's embrace. "Thank you."
George lay on the ground, sheltering Fred, talking quietly and nonstop about Quidditch, about the shop, about the girl he knew Fred fancied and what she would look like in a really short skirt, all while his tears ran into Fred's shirt, occasionally wiping his nose on his own filthy robe. He stopped after some time, shaking his brother to make sure he was still alive. "Stay awake, you bastard. Don't you dare leave me." He shook until Fred moaned something incomprehensible, then, reassured, George allowed himself to close his eyes.
***
A crashing boom and shockingly bright light shook George into instant consciousness. Out of instinct, he buried his head into Fred's neck, his arm sheltering him. The next few minutes were chaos; voices shouting, figures rushing around the prison, but to George's surprise, no curses were hurled at his adrenaline-shaken and jaw-clenched body. Instead, strong and warm hands found a hold on his shoulder, and he sensed a benevolent force behind him, not-unfriendly knees curving into his unsheltered back.
"Fred?"
George was unwilling to let loose of his twin, the part of him truer than his own shadow, and so he turned his head, his eyes mere slits against the too-bright glow from the doorway. "No, you idiot," he croaked, his throat raw from crying the night before. "I have bigger ears, Bill." He turned back to Fred, and laid his own terribly heavy head on the ground. His arms shaking with relief, he rubbed his hand at Fred's ribs while mumbling, "Wake up. Rescued."
There was no response. George found his senses suddenly taut, and he used his whole body to wriggle against Fred. "No, Fred, no," he whispered, feeling those unusually warm hands on his spine again. "No."
Somewhere in the back of his mind where a shred of lucidity lingered, he heard the unmistakable sound of Ron throwing up.
***
He stood, oddly calm, silently thanking Remus Lupin, of all people, for having offered him a quick swig of something frighteningly potent from a flask which he just happened to have hidden under a rather shabby overcoat.
George cleared his throat, then looking down at his notes, began to speak, his voice a deadened shade of melancholy.
"And I moved forward, because you must live
Forward, which is away from whatever
It was that you had, though you think when you have it
That it will stay with you forever."
Molly Weasley choked, the sound carrying through the unexpected sticky heat on the greensward. George clamped his mouth shut and set his jaw, turning only briefly to nod brusquely at someone who had not been a close friend to them, someone who they hadn't even really known well at all. But she knew, more than anyone else in attendance, what terrors he faced, why he would no longer look into mirrors, why he was so distant.
She was almost an anti-Weasley; creamy, blemish-free ivory skin, dark hair. Clad head to toe in black, she looked every bit the returning Ravenclaw prefect that she would be in mere weeks. All was perfect, save her bloodshot eyes. She turned her reddened globes to George Weasley as he stepped down from the podium and she mounted the stairs in his place, then looked out at the small assembly.
"To have a twin is to be different, and yet, never to doubt oneself," she began, "because there is always a part of you with whom you can confide, and not have to explain."
Padma Patil looked worriedly for a moment at George, who nodded, then turned his gaze out somewhere above the heads of the people who sat in uncomfortable white chairs.
"Perhaps even more than husband and wife, sibling relations can be exceptionally intimate; the most dire of enemies, also the closest of friends. But the relationship of twins goes beyond speech, beyond self."
She paused for a moment, her manicured nails grasping the wooden structure before her. "Fred Weasley shall be forever remembered, and George and all of the Weasley family will pay most dearly for his loss. Do not forget," she continued, eyes lit like coals newly extracted from a fire, "that the Dark Lord is both fickle and uncaring, and this funeral could be for George instead of Fred."
A hush smothered the few comments which had been murmured after her outburst.
Suddenly deflated, Padma sighed, "That's all I have to say, and it was already too much." She clomped as elegantly as possible down the three stairs in high heels, then was grasped in a suffocating hug by her twin sister Pavarti.
George continued to stare at the sun, which resolutely continued to set, and he was sure it would rise again, despite his decided disinterest in anything at all.
***
August 30, 2000
They both leaned back in their chairs, their absurdly cold and unshod feet propped on the metal railing despite the unseasonal chill wind which breezed across the porch of Ron's Glasgow flat.
"To Fred," Ron toasted, raising his glass to George's.
"To Fred," George replied.
They tossed back the peaty single malt which they had every year, though it was much less expensively purchased in Scotland than back in London, where George had been living until recently.
"Shit, that's still ruddy good scotch!" George breathed out, the fumes from his mouth almost visible in the keening air.
Ron nodded his head and took another puff off of his cigarette. "There are a few advantages, mate, to living in Scotland." He looked meaningfully at his brother, and offered him part of his fag.
George shook his head, but smiled softly.
"I'm sure," he replied, then watched Ron take a deep drag. "That's quite a habit you have going there, Ron."
Ron shrugged. "Until Hermione leaves me, I won't be giving it up. There are worse things, y'know." He winked, but dropped the cigarette to the cement and stared at it. "I would grind that out, but…" he looked meaningfully at his bare foot.
George rolled his eyes. "Kick it over the side."
Red hair glistened in the dark as Ron did as he was bidden, and within moments the air was clear again, fraught with memory.
"More?" Ron eyed the bottle of Oban.
George nodded ruefully.
"I'm drinking for two."
*******
The poem that George Weasley quotes is from W. S. Merwin's poem, "Green With Beasts," 1956, found in The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, © 1973.
Maybe I'm better suited for angst than I thought.
Plus I must add that I have cousins who are identical twins, and for those of us not born into such a relationship, I suspect many of us are at least remotely interested in the concept of having our own benevolent and familiar doppelgangers.
I am, anyway, until hearing of identical twins in situations when one gets cancer, say, and I reckon its worse for a twin with whom they physically have always had another in whom to confide, from the womb and beyond, and then the other is left behind, bereft. I wager that it's worse than for those of us who were born alone swimming in our own solitude.
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Date: 2004-02-11 01:12 pm (UTC):-)
Re:
Date: 2004-02-11 06:30 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-02-21 12:55 am (UTC)I *love* this last line. It's just perfect! You must write more Weasley stuff. You must!
Re:
Date: 2004-02-21 03:19 am (UTC)For you, anything.
I do love the twins. It was horrible writing this; I really don't know where the scenario came from. Though as Amy said, "How interesting is it if the bad guys die? It's only when the good ones do that you care!" But I'm going to try not killing off anyone else for awhile. Hmmm. Context for next Weasley twins fic.
Ideas??