The Muse is back

[thrihyrne]

Went for a run after work (beautiful skies, some wind, and a very cute 4 year old or so who asked why I was running [because I sit all day I replied],) and worked out some possible plotlines for my twin-story. I've been really humbled by other authors' knowledge and fascination with Magic as it resides within JKR's HP-land (and no, I haven't forsaken Tolkien, heaven forbid), but was grateful to find that I could map out some dialogue and potential interactions with OCs and OFCs. I don't know how HP fandom deals with such, but I gotta tell you, there are no Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff people mentioned by name who are in Fred and George's year, so you're bound to create your own. All that to say... read, if you wish. Here's most of what will be part 1 of 10 in my Weasley twins story. Love the twins in their (potential) complexity. Am also wrestling again with the Amrod and Amras Silmarillion story that has been simmering on a back burner for months. I'm just ecstatic to be writing again. :D



“G’night.”

“G’night.”

There was a slight rustling of sheets as George Weasley shifted in his bed, placing his freckled hands behind his head. He stared up at the now-familiar ceiling at 12 Grimmauld Place, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

“Hey Fred?”

His twin stirred in the bed across the room. “Hmmm?”

“How’s this for an additional delicacy for the snackboxes? ‘Fever Fudge.’”

An appreciative but sleepy noise came from his brother’s direction.

“You remember those sandblast snaps we had in Egypt? Those were fiery alright. If I can just figure out…”

“Leshtalkaboutitinmorning,” Fred mumbled.

George sighed, listening to his brother’s deepening breaths which soon turned into an expected, all-too-familiar snore. With a practiced arm, he lobbed a fake wand at Fred, who muttered, “Ickle prefect,” and rolled over, his snoring temporarily silenced. George snickered, though Fred’s subconscious reply reminded him of just how much on his own he was.

They were.

He had been as shocked as Fred that Ron had been appointed prefect that year for Gryffindor, and in a convoluted way, he was grateful. If nothing else, it had stopped his mum’s seemingly unceasing litany of how many ways he and Fred had managed to be continual disappointments to the Weasley name. After Percy’s royal row with their dad, George had, in a rare attempt at familiar maturity, made a point of mentioning to their mum that he was actually doing not half-poorly in charms. It had not made the positive impression he had hoped for.

“Doing passably well in charms with only three O.W.L.s?” she had replied absently, flipping through the recipe section of Witches Weekly and glancing furtively at the ever-moving hands on their kitchen clock. Then she had sat up straight, her blue eyes boring into him, surprising him with their intensity. “It’s not too late,” she had said, eyes shining. “You and Fred are clever boys, if you would only quit putting so much energy into those infernal toys of yours.”

At that, George had lost his temper, an event rare enough given his agreeable personality, but exceedingly so because he had been sitting along with his mother.

“First of all, mum,” he simmered, “those ‘toys’ are not infernal, they’re popular. They’ve got market value. We can actually make real money selling them. I’ve been talking with Zonko, and he says…”

“The joke-shop owner?” his mother had interrupted, reproach heavy in the words. “You should have higher aspirations than running a store like that. You two…”

“I’m the only one here talking with you,” George had fumed, standing up, his face scarlet with rage underneath his freckles. “Even you may not always be able to tell us apart but we are NOT one person.”

As his mother gaped, he had paced from one side of the table to the other before rounding on her and saying heatedly, “For your information, Fred’s piss-poor at charms. Ruddy brilliant at numbers, though. Maybe if all else fails he can work at Gringott’s.” The wave of anger was receding, but he had had to leave with one last jab. “Wouldn’t that be irony for you; one of your non-perfect, non-prefected sons working at a bank.”

“GEORGE XAVIER WEASLEY!” she had yelled to his retreating shoulders. “Don’t you EVER talk back to me like that again!”

He had continued with pounding footsteps to a side door of the Burrow and then after getting outside had let it slam satisfyingly behind him. He had been forced to be especially ginger around his mum for days afterwards, and had had to deal with mini-lectures from Fred about leaving their mum out of it on top of it all.

Admittedly, it could be far easier to think of himself as GeorgeandFred, though it was usually FredandGeorge. Always together, and identical.

Only they weren’t. And they weren’t.

Really, it was much more apt to say it was FredandGeorgeandLee. George didn’t want to give much thought to the fact that while Lee Jordan was the Third Musketeer in their trio (having a Muggle father, Jordan had come up with that analogy, and their other roommate, Kenneth Towler, had never been close to them), he actually had plans beyond Hogwarts that did not include being a part of their joke-shop enterprise. They had invited Lee in, of course, but he really had his heart set on being a professional Quidditch announcer.

And they weren’t identical. Not really. Well, they were in appearance, usually, though Fred was more likely to forget to do his shaving spell for days on end until Kenneth, who was decidedly priggish and came from a well-off wizarding family in Oxford, asked if he was trying to emulate a young Dumbledore. George was also left-handed, and Fred was not. It was part of what made them such brutally seamless beaters, able to act like two hands on one body. George sometimes wondered if Hermione, Ron’s overly-observant friend, had told Harry about that, as the two of them were among the few outside of their immediate family who almost never confused their identities.

Fred’s newly rumbling snores brought George out of his reverie, and he leaned over to find something - anything- under the bed to toss at him. At Hogwarts they all had curtains which shut out the noise, but he had always been a much lighter sleeper than his twin. While being in this house had certainly had its advantages, namely a perfect place to pick up unexpected things like doxies and snuffboxes with wartcap powder, for some reason it had seemed to amplify noises in ways that didn’t happen in their own house, which, granted, was never quiet.

His hand scrabbled around on the floorboards until they closed around a broken quill. “Useless,” George grumbled, his fingers still searching for something that would make it across the room. He smiled tiredly as he found a dungbomb, then closing one eye, aimed at Fred’s thigh.

“Fizshing… Filch, never there, honest…” Fred commented in his sleep, one arm rubbing his nose.

Though he didn’t know how long they would actually be there, George was more than ready to return to Hogwarts. He closed his eyes and dozed off in the interim quiet.

*****

George hadn’t been standing on the platform long before he saw the unmistakable dreadlocked head of Lee Jordan. Lee grinned at them as he started up the steps of the train, then he caught sight of Padfoot and yelled, “Nice dog, Harry!” before disappearing in the crush of returning students.

He and Fred reluctantly hugged their mother, vaguely acknowledging her admonitions to stay out of trouble and not undermine Ron’s new authority as prefect without actually agreeing to any of her warnings. George took the stairs two steps at a time despite lugging his trunk behind him and hit his head soundly as he reached the top step. “Bloody hell!” he swore, rubbing at his forehead as he made his way down the corridor.

He shoved his trunk next to Fred’s as his brother quickly made the pronouncement, “Well! Can’t stand around chatting all day, we’ve got business to discuss with Lee. See you later.” Fred bid a hasty retreat from the compartment and George followed down the corridor. Soon they were at their usual haunt on the Express, sprawled across from each other on the seats and listening to the details of Lee’s summer adventures. He’d travelled to Brighton where he’d met a young woman with the unfortuante name of Prunella who was fortunately skilled in many pleasurable ways. He also seemed to be suffering from grief he was getting from his parents about his post-school plans.

“Too right!” George agreed, shaking his head. “Mum’s not exactly supportive. She made us toss our first orders of trick wands.”

“She didn’t!” Lee exclaimed, clearly appalled.

“She did, the wicked woman,” Fred echoed angrily. “Stood over us with her wand, threatening to hex us into next week if we didn’t destroy them properly.”

“And it gets better,” George muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Ron. Hopeless, sodding Ron is a prefect,” Fred finished.

Lee stared at them in disbelief. “It must be a joke,” he finally resolved.

“But it isn’t,” George said, pulling a small bag from his pocket. “Chocolate frog?” he offered.

Lee shook his head. “No thanks. Shoved down a huge breakfast not long ago.”

Fred nodded. “Well, his new status won’t change our plans. George and I have come up with several new items over the hols for our skiving snackboxes. We’ll just need to put up some signs and convince some of our innocent, brave first-years to try some of them.”

“We’ve been trying them out on ourselves, of course. Still perfecting some of the ingredients,” George added.

“No permanent damage,” Fred continued, grinning.

“Yet,” Lee chuckled. “Oy, how many N.E.W.T.s are you pair going for? I tried explaining to mum how useless they are, which brought on the ‘there’s more to life than Quidditch’ speech.”

George looked at Fred, who shrugged and pulled out a deck of cards. “As few as possible,” Fred said vehemently. “Exploding snap, gents?”

The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful, though there were two somewhat unexpected visitors. George had been staring at the muggle contraption Lee called a CD player (Lee himself was splayed prone on the floor, listening to some music on it) when Angelina Johnson burst in, announcing her Gryffindor Quidditch Captainship and that Fred and George had best not been getting soft over the summer.

“Who could be soft when you’re around?” Fred leered. George and Lee both looked up, staring at Angelina to gauge her reaction.

“Rude git!” she shot back, but she seemed to be smirking as she left the compartment as hastily as she had entered.

“Hey mate,” Lee scowled, twisting his napped chocolate-colored hair between his fingers. “I’m the one whose had my eye on her for years.”

“Why didn’t you ask her to the Yule Ball, then?” Fred retorted, but held up his hands in mock surrender. “Not that we have anything going on.”

Lee looked suspiciously at him. “You don’t?”

“Well,” Fred admitted, stretching out his long legs to the seat across from him, “We have snogged a couple of times. But we aren’t dating or anything.”

“Snogged?” Lee uncurled from the floor and stood upright, his imposing height shadowing their window as George shook his head. “You’re supposed to tell a friend about things like that.”

“What do you want to know?” Fred asked, instinctively drawing his legs back closer to his body. “You’ve mooned over her, but Merlin’s beard, Lee, a bloke’s gotta…”

But the lesson in what a bloke should do in such instances was unexpectedly cut short by an enthusiastic rapping on their compartment window.

“Why is she here?” Lee asked, irritably.

“Probably coming to pay her respects,” Fred replied, glancing knowingly at George. “She has a thing for redheaded Quidditch players.”

“Shut up, twit,” George answered, his stomach churning in rather unexpected ways as he waved in their visitor.

Phoebe MacGhinty was a rather plain-faced, auburn-haired sixth year in Gryffindor from Dublin. George had danced with her during a couple of the more enthusiastic songs at the Yule Ball until he heard one of the Slytherins from his year loudly exclaim, “Oh, the horror! Even their hair clashes!” At that, George had made a rude gesture toward the offending student unseen by his dancing partner. While McGonagall pointedly had not taken points away from her own house, her disapproving eyes were message enough and George had only hoped that Phoebe hadn’t heard. She was the youngest of four with three older brothers, and came from a family of similar means as the Weasleys. That and the fact that one of said older brothers played for Kenmore Kestrals meant that George had a soft spot in his heart for her, especially since she cheered for Fred and him with sentiments that only someone who truly knew and loved Quidditch could express.

She seemed to have matured somewhat over the summer. George motioned for her to enter and tried valiantly not to look at her jeans which hung on newly-exposed hips.

“Phoebe!” he enthused. “How was your summer?”

She stood, uncertain, in the doorway. “Alright, I suppose,” she ventured, then walked into the testosterone-filled compartment and sat on the cushioned seat across from the twins. Lee glowered menacingly from the far wall. “You?” Her brown eyes danced with mischief. “More progress on the snackboxes?”

Fred glared at George as he shrugged as innocently as possible, rolling a galleon over his left knuckles, then, in a wave of prestidigitation, the coin vanished.

“I think they’re brilliant,” she continued.

“Care to buy an extendable ear?” Fred suggested, always eager to make money whenever possible.

“What does it do?” Phoebe asked.

Fred explained and her eyes lit up. “I can think of plenty of uses for that. What’ll it cost me?” Phoebe asked, and soon the haggling began.

Seven galleons and a few moments later, she and their first purchase of the school year had left the compartment. Then Ron walked by, looking rather official and proud and very wary as he motioned that they would be at Hogwarts soon and should change into their robes.

“Prefect,” George exhaled, then jerked his head toward the back of the train, indicating that he’d get Fred’s and his trunks and robes.

“Prat,” Fred spat, looking at Lee. “You wouldn’t believe the righteous spewing from mum. As though being a Weasley was a shoe-in for being on the right side of the law. Except for us, of course.”

“That combined with the shit with Tripe, and you have an idea of our summer,” George went on, opening the door.

“Tripe?” Lee asked quizzically, pulling his robe over his ‘Got Quidditch?’ t-shirt.

“Tri-P,” Fred explained, a clouded, menacing expression on his face. “Percy, the Poncey Prick. Huge, dragon-sized pile of droppings. Told dad as much as he was embarrassed of the family and that dad was clinging to Dumbledore’s robes.”

“Worst. Summer. Ever.” George offered.

“Bollocks,” George heard Lee say in affirmation as he wove down the corridor, trying not to trip over the younger students who resembled bees without a queen and looked petrified.

“Nice first years,” George cooed, patting a few on their ridiculously short heads, then he ducked into the compartment with Fred’s and his trunks, and pulled them out and back toward the front of the train.

This was it. Their last year.

Couldn’t come too soon, he reckoned, accidentally running a trunk into a dazed third-year Hufflepuff as he hauled their belongings into their compartment.

“They’re getting shorter,” he pronounced, then with years of habit, bent over and found his robe, not even looking at the other contents held within its confines, trusting in his own packing.

“Shut the door,” Fred murmured in a suspiciously quiet voice.

“Right,” George replied.

He heard a disguising spell quickly cast, then Lee produced a bottle of Bitter Banshee.

“’Ere’s to us, mates. This is it,” he said, having thrust recently transfigured glasses into the twins’ hands. He poured the potent green liquid in, then gesticulated for a toast.

“To us!” Fred roared.

“To us!” George echoed. “’Here’s to us, ‘oos like us, damn few, and they’re all dead.’” He raised his small glass, they all clinked, then tossed back the *Merlin!firedownthethroat!oh, that’s better now* substance.

Lee shook his head, then grinned, his white teeth shining against his dark face.

“Let’s make it count, gents.”

“All for one, and one for all!” George said, swaying only slightly.

“Better pack this up, mates, before one of the Slytherins gets nosy,” Lee said with a knowing look.

“Best,” Fred and George replied in tandem.



Love the twins. So glad that they will let me write about them.

Comments

[vulgarweed.livejournal.com]

OOh, I'm glad they let you write them too -- I think you've got their voices dead-on. This is really, really good so far.

(although I hate to question this 'cause it's such a good line, but doesn't Bill work for Gringott's? Admittedly, not with numbers.)

[thrihyrne.livejournal.com]

although I hate to question this 'cause it's such a good line, but doesn't Bill work for Gringott's?

ARGH! Yes! Damn. But I can fix it. I can just say "Wouldn't it be shocking for one of your non-perfect non-prefected sons to be working at Gringotts" or somesuch. Thank you both for reading and thinking they sound believable, and pointing out the error. Whenever I get it finished I'll definitely need a thorough beta and Britpick. :P