"Countdown," the twinfic, part III

[thrihyrne]

Further edit and addition, May 20th: when revisiting OotP I realized that there was a potential time of levity, and so, have written it in. Romanticalgirl, I hope this will tide you over until I get going on part iv, December.


Author's caveat: I am posting these chapters as they are written and spellchecked. They are unbeta'ed, unBritpicked, and therefore, not really for public reading, but for my own jollies and those of romanticalgirl and anyone else who might enjoy twinfic which focuses on them and has no twincest.

But romanticalgirl, here's the next bit-o-twinses! It's looking kindof dismal for them, but y'know, that's JKR's fault, not mine. I'm working within her parameters.

***


III. November

“Harried harridan.”

George could barely force the words out; his teeth were still clenched tightly enough to grind even the air between them into some new, and undoubtedly bitter, substance. Something that could easily be used in some kind of revenge potion, were he able to actually bottle the anger that pulsed through him, currently manifest in an octet of crescents being pressed into his palms by his fingernails.

The common room was unusually subdued. Like people at a funeral, he thought, even though he hadn’t actually attended one. Yet. But he did have every mind to kill the Umbridge woman. After he’d sent Harry on to the tower following their joint meeting with McGonagall and then Umbridge, he had taken a few minutes in an infrequently-used room to transform his good luck charm into a glass container which he threw repeatedly, and with never-flagging satisfaction, against the wall, repairing it after each launch and resultant shattering. He’d found part of a broken chair and he channeled his magic through it, something he’d taught himself after his mother began taking Fred’s and his wands away in the summers. “For your own good,” she’d said.

“No.”

*smash*

reparo

“More.”

*smash*

reparo

“Quidditch.”

*smash*

reparo

“No.”

*smash*

reparo

“No! Fucking! Way! Not my broomstick! And Fred’s!”

*smash*

reparo

George had stared at the wall for a moment, imagining Umbridge’s doughy face before aiming again.

“You won’t get away with this,” he’d said with surprising calm, then hurled the glass against the wall. After glaring at the mess of shards for a few moments, as though to conjure some Dark Creature from the splinters, his face had slackened. In its untransfigured, usual state, the broken item in question was a double-headed coin, the first joke item he’d bought without Fred knowing. He had used it during all of their coin-tossed pranks for at least a year before Fred had caught on and stole it. It was only a few days before they left for their second year at Hogwarts when George had found it again, peeking out from under the threadbare rug in their room in the Burrow. From then on he had always put it in his pocket when he played Quidditch.

“Best check on the rest of the team,” he’d sighed, dropping the stick with a clatter. He hadn’t had an opportunity to change since he had decked Malfoy in the nose just as the other had avenged with a fist to his mouth, but George really didn’t care what he looked like right at the moment. It was all irrelevant; just another kick to the gut that was part of ‘learning what to do’ lessons that came with being a Weasley.

At least there was someone lower than him. There was Filch, who would be cursing his name, or Fred’s, for generations to come. Before departing, he’d made a rude gesture at the twinkling glass heap and stalked up to the Gryffindor tower.

Fat lot of good luck you were, he mused angrily. No more Quidditch anyway, so what’s the bleedin’ loss?

George scanned the room, saw Alicia, Angelina and Katie, Fred and Harry, Ginny and Hermione all clustered near the fire. Heedless of a pair of second years intently poring over a parchment rolled on the floor, he stepped through them, leaving a muddy footprint on their assignment. He continued on, their indignant yelps hushed when he turned and scowled at them.

“About time you showed up for the wake,” Fred said, shoving Ginny over to make room.

“Don’t seem to have missed much,” George replied, looking up in annoyance when the Snitch buzzed around his head. He gave it an authoritative swat and it zoomed away, Hermione’s cat chasing it with predatory purpose.

“Can’t fucking believe…” Fred began, then under Hermione’s gaze, gave her a blistering look and continued, “can’t bloody believe we’re banned.”

“Banned,” Angelina echoed, then articulated what they all were thinking. “No Seeker and no Beaters… What on earth are we going to do?”

George shook his head, then looked at Fred. “Leave,” he mouthed.

Fred’s face took on a passing shimmer of glee, then it vanished as he defended his being banned to Alicia. George laid back on the floor, one hand behind his head and one over his eyes. He halfheartedly listened to Fred and Katie bandy disparaging remarks about the Slytherins, their mutual loathing rising to a fevered pitch when Angelina announced she was leaving. George couldn’t bring himself to look at her; he was quite content to wallow in his own misery and self-righteousness.

“Mum’d better not send a Howler after all this,” he sulked, poking Fred in the leg. “Wouldn’t that be icing on the cake?”

“She wouldn’t!” Ginny shouted, rushing to their mother’s defense.

“You don’t know her like we do,” George retaliated. “She would. To us.”

“Wouldn’t!” Ginny replied, beginning to stand.

“Time to go,” Fred said, pushing Ginny back onto her cushion and offering an arm to George. “I haven’t seen Lee; we don’t want to lose him to the bottle two months before the Christmas hols.”

George allowed himself to be pulled up from the floor.

“Bottle?” Hermione asked, suspicious.

“Absinthe,” Fred deadpanned. “Nothing to worry about. G’night prickly prefects.”

They were almost to the dormitory staircase when Fred turned suddenly, and George crashed into him.

“Oy!” Fred exclaimed, looking pointedly at Hermione. “Where’s our brother?”

“Ron?” she asked, clutching her fingertips and looking at the windows, where snow was falling outside.

George rolled his eyes. “We’re sure as Merlin not talking about Tripe.”

“Haven’t seen him since…” Harry admitted, his expression one of guilt. “Since Malfoy was such an extraordinary basta-” he stopped as Hermione gasped and hit him in the shoulder. “Was so extraordinarily Malfoy.”

“Right,” Fred said, eyes blazing. “I’m sure he’ll show up. Sweet dreams.”

George followed him up the stairs to their room.

As Fred had hypothesized, Lee was well into at least his second glass of firewhiskey. He was engaged in an animated and profane one-sided discussion with the players on the Green Knights poster who appeared rather put out at being so disturbed. He whirled around when the door opened, clamping his mouth shut and shaking his head mutely at the twins. Then the barrage began.

“Fred!” he bellowed at George, then, realizing his mistake, slurred, “Sorry George. Dammit, Freorge! Gred! I mean, Fred! This can’t be happening!”

George awkwardly held him in a hug while Fred tried to take the glass out of his hand. “Can’t believe it,” Lee spoke into George’s neck, then wrenched out of the embrace as he discerned Fred’s intentions. “Mine,” he growled, clasping the glass tightly.

In the midst of the debacle of a tipsy Lee Jordan bemoaning the end of Quidditch at Hogwarts, Fred trying to wrest the firewhiskey out of his hand, and George backing away from it all to go straight for the bottle of Bitter Banshee, Kenneth burst into the room. The door hung open for a few seconds, then closed resolutely behind him.

George paused in the brief stillness, his glass at his lips, then poured the liquor into his mouth.

“Towler?” Fred asked, a rare thread of worry in his voice.

Lee shifted and leaned against the nearby wall, steadying his stance.

“She. Dumped. Me.” Kenneth’s normally imperious face verged on vacant. George watched him glance around the room at the three of them, he and Fred still in their Quidditch gear; at the open bottles of alcohol, and finally at the Quidditch players in the Glaswegian poster who had all stopped flying and were staring at him.

“What the bloody hell are you looking at?” he roared at them and they zoomed off.

Lee righted himself and walked to Towler, offering his glass of firewhiskey. “Sorry mate,” he consoled, draping an arm over his shoulder. “She never deserved you.”

Kenneth let out a long breath through his teeth. “I know you mean well, but now is not the time,” he muttered, but took the glass nonetheless. After drinking the entire contents, he looked at the twins. “Sorry about the ban. Only wish you’d gotten in a few more punches into that bastard of a too-self-satisfied pureblood while you had the chance. It looked great, y’know?” he mused, holding his glass out to Fred, who was nearest the bar. Fred poured a bit more firewhiskey into it, and Kenneth gestured a toast in his direction.

“Do, go on,” Fred said, sarcastically. “Especially since it was George here who actually hit him.”

Kenneth looked oddly at George. “Really?” he articulated, looking from George to Fred. “Hmmm,” he decided. “Yes. Gryffindors standing up for their names. We’re all about our pride, are we not?”

“How am I going to be able to be the announcer at the other matches?” Lee lamented.

“Oh, fucking hell,” Fred snorted, looking at his brother and roommates, misery on every face. “We’re taking the tunnel tonight.”

From the Marauder’s Map Fred and George had discovered a tunnel which traversed from behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy down to the basement of The Hog’s Head where the butterbeer and other items were stored.

“Everybody in?”

“D’you reckon there’s enough there for us all to drown our sorrows?” George asked, downing a second shot of Bitter Banshee.

“Yes,” Fred replied. “If we’re lucky.”

George felt a shiver go through him. “I think my luck has run out.”

***

“I’m sorry about Leonora,” George said a couple of hours later, lounging in one of the transfigured cushiony chairs they had cleverly modified prior to ingesting several butterbeers apiece. In Kenneth’s case, he had gone straight for his own bottle of firewhiskey, and was sipping slowly, albeit steadily. Given his circumstances, the other three had felt it only appropriate. Quidditch, while sacred, was one thing. They would all leave Hogwarts, they could play recreationally. Only Towler had had a serious girlfriend, and only he had known true heartbreak.

Kenneth sighed over the top of the bottle, making a haunting, owl-like sound. Momentarily distracted, he did it again, just because he could.

“I am too,” Kenneth answered, turning to face George, his bright blue eyes lit with intensity and forced focus due to his inebriated state. “I thought I loved her,” he admitted, challenging George in his desperation. “Have you ever been in love?”

George stared back. “What?” he asked.

“Been in love. Have you?” Kenneth repeated.

“I don’t think George has had the pleasure,” Fred offered.

“How about unrequited love?” Lee said, dejected. “Let me tell you about a wonderful Quidditch player named Angelina. Who, apparently,” he paused to give Fred a dirty look, “can’t seem to see far enough to somebody who cares about her, and instead snogs one of the Weasley Beaters. Ex-beaters,” he repeated, “and apparently not exclusively.”

“Who else has she been kissing?” Fred asked, looking stunned.

“I reckon that Thalia might be a good kisser,” George mumbled, then glanced at his watch. “Bollocky banshees!” he whistled. “It’s after two. We need to go.”

“I don’t even care about Ancient Runes anymore,” Kenneth said, dispirited. “N.E.W.T.s. Any of it. I’ll just go and work for Dad.”

“You do care, you big twit,” Fred said, holding his hands down to Kenneth to help him out of the chair. “You’re good at them, and you can now come up with and read some of the most horrifying hexes in any age.” He huffed for a moment after pulling Towler to his feet, the mostly empty bottle rolling on the floor. “That’ll come in handy one day, mark my words.”

“You’re by far the most academically successful of the Gryffindor seventh years,” Lee opined, following his proclamation with a satisfyingly loud belch and following self-pardon.

“Academically successful Gryffindor male seventh years,” George clarified. “I think McGonagall gave up on us lot - save you, Towler - for the ladies a long time ago.”

“Too right,” Lee agreed.

“Let’s go,” Fred suggested. After transfiguring their chairs back to their normal form as wooden crates, the quadruplet of young men made their unsteady way back to Hogwarts.

They were almost to Gryffindor tower when disaster struck. Lee had tripped over a corner of his robes and fell to the ground, cursing a blue streak as George helped him up from the ground.

“Well, well, well,” Snape bloviated as he appeared out of a corridor, his approach more silent than shadow. “What have we here?” he asked rhetorically, his probing gaze alighting on each of the group in turn.

“Oh. Fuck,” Lee whispered, rubbing at his newly-bruised shoulder.

“Fred Weasley,” Snape began, looking at George, who, out of instinct, shook his head. “George. Whichever.” Snape clipped at the syllables as though cutting a distasteful potions ingredient. “Both. And Lee Jordan, making the usual triumverate of havoc and chaos.”

Fred looked meaningfully at George, indicating that he would do the talking, were he to find a window of silence to reply.

“Kenneth Towler?” Snape raised his arm and Fred made as if to stand in front of his roommate. “Step forward. I would have expected better of you than skulking around Hogwarts with these charlatans posing as students.”

“Yes sir,” he said, shuffling a few steps forward. All four of the young men were as tall as the professor, so while Snape’s height was no longer domineering, only Kenneth was planning to take a N.E.W.T. in potions, and he cowed in front of his instructor.

Snape sniffed the air between them and his mouth turned down even further. “Have you been drinking, Mr. Towler?”

“Kenneth lost his girlfriend today, professor,” Fred said.

“I can speak for myself!” Kenneth said through gritted teeth, turning his head just slightly to the side.

“Ah. Romantic woes,” Snape clucked in a decidedly non-nurturing manner. “Which I care to know nothing about, rest assured,” he continued as Kenneth opened his mouth to defend himself. “I assumed given your present company that you were lamenting the lifetime ban rightly imposed on your house’s ruffian beaters and seeker.”

“Malfoy insulted our family,” George seethed.

“I see,” Snape said, turning his attentions to George. “And am I to assume that such a thing has never before happened in the history of Hogwarts, and therefore justifies pummeling one of the students in my house to the ground?”

“Malfoy is a premium grade wanker,” Fred muttered. “He deserved more than what Harry and George gave him.”

“I am not deaf, Mr. Weasley,” Snape snapped. “Detentions. All of you. For blatant disregard of rules pertaining to, but not limited by: student curfew, student drinking policies, and respect to Professorial staff. Messers Weasley, report to Filch for the next two weeks at nine o’clock. Sharp. I am sure that he will be most pleased to know that he has such strapping young men to clean some of the more – stubborn – parts of the castle.”

George stared furiously at Snape.

“Messers Towler and Jordan, you will report to me. I expect to see you in the potions classroom at eight o’clock tomorrow. Depending on your ability to follow directions, your detentions may last as few as six days or as many as those of your comrades.”

Lee groaned.

“Your enthusiasm is noted, Mr. Jordan. Now I recommend that you and your obstreprous gaggle of Gryffindors get to your tower post-haste before I find myself contacting your head of house.”

“What does ‘obstreprous’ mean?” Kenneth asked quietly as they turned around.

“Who cares?” Fred said, his hands clenched in his robes.

“The library is full of dictionaries, Mr. Towler,” Snape said, the corner of his mouth quirked into an unsympathetic, grim smile. “I suggest you consult one.”

The four trudged back to the common room in uncharacteristic silence. Mostly.

“You can consult my white Weasley arse,” George said to the ground, a few steps after they left the potions master, all pleasant effects from their revelry having disappeared as surely as the Leprechaun gold Bagman had given them a year prior.

"It could be worse," Kenneth said, and Fred glared at him.

"How?" he said. "No quidditch, no brooms, detentions for two weeks. Well," he paused to appraise Towler and Jordan, "two weeks for some of us." He leaned on the word 'some' to make his point of the injustice he saw in the way the punishments had been meted out.

"He didn't take any house points away," Lee said, his brow furrowed as they approached their potrait.

"What?" George asked.

"Snape. He didn't take away any house points."

"So?"

"Yeah," Fred snapped. "Why bother taking away house points when you can have four seventh-years as slave labor?"

"Boys! You are out so late!" The Fat Lady shook her finger at them, though she was mostly asleep.

"Harried harridan," Kenneth sighed, and they all crossed into the common room and made their way up the stairs.

***

The following morning dawned bright. Blazingly so, to the four hungover students, once they each opened their bedcurtains. Lee was the first to discover why their room was lit with sharp, reflected light.

“Snow!” he said excitedly, then rubbed his head, wincing in pain. “Loads of it. Must’ve been snowing all night.”

“Don’t shout, Jordan,” Towler moaned from the opposite bed. “Fred, you have some Pepper-up?”

“Of course,” he replied. “Four draughts of George’s Sunday Morning Special, coming right up.”

A few minutes later all four of them felt remarkably better, and ready to tuck into some breakfast before going outside.

George took his usual seat in the Great Hall and quickly piled his plate with scones, jam, sausages and a hillock-sized mound of butter. Still chewing a mouthful of strawberry and dough, he glanced over at Ron, who was looking oddly contemplative, pushing his toast through a golden puddle of egg yolk.

“Coming outside, Ron?” he asked.

“What? Oh, no. Can’t,” Ron said dejectedly, putting the bread in his mouth. “Too much homework.”

“You take those classes far too seriously, little brother,” Fred added, having just shoved an impressively large forkful of sausage and eggs with tomato sauce in his mouth.

“Ugh!” Hermione shook her head in exasperation, looking from the twins to Ron and back. “Do any of you think you could be bothered to chew and swallow your food before you speak? It verges on disgusting to watch, meal after meal.”

“No,” all three replied, still chewing, Fred and George smirking as they did, Ron looking put out.

Hermione made a rumbly disapproving noise in her throat, then turned to talk to Harry.

“Yeah, Ron,” George said, “If you aren’t careful, they may consider you for Head Boy.”

“Wouldn’t mum be proud,” Fred continued, launching into a nearly perfect imitation of Molly Weasley. “Oh Ron! Head Boy!”

“Better than those lazy twins, never applied themselves,” George went on, wagging his finger at Fred.

“Shut up!” Ron said, a look of loathing on his face. “Can’t you pick on someone else for a change?”

“Well, we could,” Fred said thoughtfully, turning a triangular wedge of toast between his fingers. “But why should we when you make it so easy?”

“Piss off,” Ron sulked.

George took the rind of a wedge of orange and charmed it to flash different colours, then put it in his mouth, grinning every few seconds at some second years a bit further down the table. They laughed, and George thought about how simple things had seemed their first couple of years, even in the shadows of Charlie and Percy. Nobody had mistaken them for their older brothers, that was sure.

“Fred? George?” Jordan called from a bit further down the table.

“Yesh?” George replied, flashing the orange rind.

Lee rolled his eyes. “You ready?”

“Indubitably, my good man,” Fred answered. The Great Hall was rapidly emptying as students from all of the houses rushed through their breakfasts to go outside into the snow. George followed Fred, Lee and Kenneth, pausing to wrap his gold and scarlet scarf around his neck.

***

The grounds were a riot of black robes contrasting with white snow. Fred and George conscripted a couple of sixth years and commenced pelting Angelina, Alicia and Katie with snowballs. The girls retaliated by pulling over Patricia Stimpson, Thalia, and Vicky Frobisher, another sixth year, and erected a hastily built but sturdy defense. Snowballs flew from both sides as Kenneth oversaw the engineering of a snow wall of their own. After a while Angelina stood up and after getting her fifth pile of slush directly at her face, yelled, “Fred! You’re playing dirty, you prat! You’ve charmed yours!”

He stood as well, a saucy grin on his face. “What of it?” he taunted, then twisted backward as a snowball went flying past him. Righting himself, he retorted, “Now who’s the brave Quidditch captarrrrrrgh!” he spluttered, as six packed snowballs pelted him, and he fell soundly on his backside.

“Victory for the Girls of Gryffindor!” came from across the lawn. They did a dance of sorts, raising their arms and shimmying their hips, obviously enjoying themselves.

Kenneth sighed. “Gents, I’m done in.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Fred said, brushing snow off of his robes and holding a hand out to George to help him up. “We’re just getting started!”

“Not your N.E.W.T.s again!” Lee said, packing another snowball. “You have loads of time to study.”

“Just not fully recovered from last night’s rather unexpected change of events,” Kenneth said, the words heavy with meaning.

“Go on, then,” George said, smiling through a thin haze of regret. “We promise not to throw too many snowballs at your back,” he offered.

“Or Leonora, though she deserves it,” Fred said, but Kenneth gave him a warning look.

“Don’t,” he said. “Any revenge, should it be taken, will be done by me. I have my dignity.”

As he turned to go back to the castle, George wondered for a moment what it would feel like to have been so involved with someone, to spend so much time with one person, and then suddenly be faced with their very distinct absence; like losing a tooth and constantly sticking your tongue in the spot to remind yourself that it was no longer there. He watched Lee roar a cry of pursuit and then run after Katie Bell, who had pummeled him with several well-aimed missiles, and decided such serious thoughts had no place for pondering on a day like today.

“Fred?” he heard, seeing Fred nodding downwards, indicating for him to squat by his twin under the shelter of their wall of ice.

They didn’t ‘switch’ very often any more, since their personalities, while still interchangeable to most, were not nearly so much so to each other. George tilted his head into the reckless breeze, sniffing the wild anarchy of possibility…

“Right,” George answered, fingering his clothes. “But you’ve got to put a knot in your scarf. And for Merlin’s sake, don’t go throwing ice bombs at Leonora while posing as me.”

Fred smiled with a devilish look on his face. “It’s not as though anyone can tell us apart anyway. And besides, I think there’s a prefect who could use some distraction, and then we can split up.”

A twinge of guilt threatened to make a dent in George’s outlook, but it was squashed posthaste without remorse. The sun shone. Snow was imminently packable. His broom might be locked away, but he still had his wand.

“On my mark!” he said, now acting like Fred to an F.

“Ready?” Fred replied, as George.

“Three. Two. One!” they said together.

In timed release, they lobbed snowballs up to the Gryffindor tower window. Only a few, then a pause. When Ron didn’t appear, they took a short break to make and pile some more. After a few minutes, they launched three apiece, strategically timed.

No response.

“One more go,” FredasGeorge said, taking on his twin’s tenacity.

GeorgeasFred agreed, and seeing a sudden glint in the window, held his projectile in his hand.

“For all Weasleys, everywhere!” FredasGeorge said, winking, then they saw the unmistakable sight of Ron’s shaggy red head leaning from the tower.

“Oy!” he bellowed from the stone sill. “I am a prefect, and if one more snowball hits this window…”

He hadn’t stood a chance. Once his face had been visible, Fred and George had both thrown the remainder of their arsenal, and hit their mark. The tower window slammed shut.

Fred and George shook hands, then went to make their way around the snowfield.

***

That evening in the common room, George sat on the couch, looking back and forth from one of Towler’s Ancient Runes books to a parchment where he was doodling the word ‘taffy’ in different lettering styles. It had been an excellent day. He’d fabricated three snowballs and juggled them while wandering the grounds, seeing where some impressively artistic upper-level Ravenclaws had made a snowraven, charming the wings to beat outward if anyone else got too close to it. At one point he saw Thalia run at Fred and shove two handfuls of snow down the back of his robes, which made him shamefully jealous. Fred had hauled her up and over his shoulder while she kicked madly into the air and beat on his back while he walked a few steps, then put her down. She whirled around to face him and hit him on the chest a few times, then after looking at him for a few seconds, stepped back and tilted her head. George had watched as they spoke, then Fred had put his finger to his lips for her to be quiet. She’d meant to find me! George had thought, and grinned.

There was a swish of robes and George looked up to see Thalia hefting Towler’s book, then plunked herself down next to him.

“Whatcha doing?” she asked, her accent not as thick as Seamus’, but still noticeable. “New product?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he replied, brushing his hair out of his eyes and trying to act completely normal even though her thigh was pressed next to his. “A couple of them. Towel-head came across an old Italian potion that seems to have the same effects as veritaserum, but less potent. Thought it could be fun to make truth-telling taffy or some such.”

Thalia nodded, looking intrigued.

“Good for a laugh, which is the point,” he continued, focusing on her fingers as they traced some runes on the page, her fingernails chewed to the quick. “Any of your friends want to buy an extendable ear? We’ve got heaps.”

“No,” she said forcefully. George’s surprise at her comment must have showed on his face, because she hurried on. “They’re great, it’s not that. But everyone’s caught on to them. Flitwick has been so pleased that the 6th-year Gryffindors are all so good at their imperturbable charms.” She smiled. “He just doesn’t know how we got so much practice.”

George found his attentions torn away from Thalia’s lips, which he had been admiring while she gave her explanation, when suddenly Lee swore and threw down his hand of cards.

“Who pissed in your porridge?” Fred asked, sitting across from him.

“Fred!” Hermione yelped. “Mind your language.”

Fred ignored her.

“Detention’s coming up. Or had you forgotten?”

“Dragon droppings,” Fred growled. “I had.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” George said, scrawling a black smear through one of the decorative capital Ts he had written.

“Detention?” Thalia asked, looking at George, then over to Fred and Lee.

“Yes. Don’t ask, because I can’t tell you.”

“Wasn’t going to. It’s not as though you’ve never had detention before.”

George raised an eyebrow. “You noticed?”

She made an odd sound, somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “Someone’s needed to keep an eye on you two,” she said, looking thoughtfully at him. “Anyway, gotta go meself.” Thalia closed the runes book and got up from the couch, dropping the text into the curved indent where she had been sitting. “Herbology. Loads to write up about emmalexis buds and potential dangers in growing them too near other plants. Hope your detention’s not too terrible.”

“It’s just Filch,” George replied, trying to postpone her departure. “The usual drudgery.”

“Thalia! Herbology!” Vicky called impatiently from near the stairway to the girl’s dormitory.

“See you,” Thalia said, then jogged across the room and climbed the staircase with her roommate.

“…but it’s with slimy Snape, you tosser!” George heard Lee say to Fred, as he nervously twisted one of his dreadlocks in his fingers. “He never liked me.”

“You’re in good company,” Towler added, striding into the common room and looking as though he had been force fed a lemon. “He doesn’t like anyone. He just happens to loathe Gryffindors especially.”

George stood and saluted Lee and Kenneth as they went through the portrait hole while Fred hummed the tune from a funeral march. After they left, he played a couple of half-hearted games of exploding snap with Fred before begging off and going to their room. An unsettling vision of Thalia sucking on a prototype of the taffy had burrowed into his imagination and he decided to go and quickly take care of the effects that image were having on a certain, very insistent and very private part of his anatomy.

“Gotta check up on you know what,” he lied to Fred, moving toward the boy’s dorm.

“Right,” Fred deadpanned. “Don’t make me come up and separate you and George junior.”

“Fred!” Hermione’s face blushed so deeply even her ears were scarlet. “Crude!” she gasped. “First years in this room!” She turned to her left. “Ron, you tell him!”

Ron stared intently at his knees, then, steeling himself, looked Fred in the eye. “You should be setting an example for the younger students,” he intoned, turning his head toward some gaping second years and giving them a curt nod.

“Oh, we’ll set an example, don’t you worry,” George heard as he took the steps two at a time.

***

George had experienced an unexpected ominous feeling when they approached Filch’s office. He and Fred were more than familiar with the caretaker, and his cleaning tasks, never in places where they could discover more secrets. Filch stood in his doorway, Mrs. Norris purring and manoeuvering feline figure-eights around his feet.

“So! Weasleys,” Filch said, grinning.

“Filch,” Fred and George replied at the same time, in monotone.

“You have a special assignment tonight,” the caretaker continued, just as George heard the sound of footfalls approaching purposefully from their left. Like a crow descending on carrion, Snape took his last few steps and stopped in front of the small assembly.

“Weasleys, Fred and George,” he acknowledged.

A wave of nauseous hatred rushed through George as he looked at the potions master. The smug, self-righteous expression he saw there was the same as the one he had seen on Percy’s face, months ago, and he wished for nothing more than his wand and an opportunity to wipe it and everything else off of this man.

“Follow me,” the professor said, then turned on his heel and walked down the corridor.

Fred turned to George, an untrusting, rebellious look in his eyes.

George shook his head, furious and resigned.

They trailed in the wake of Snape’s billowing robes down to the dungeons level and toward the Slytherin dormitories.

“What the…” Fred began, then Snape turned to face them.

“I must now cast a silencing spell on you. Wouldn’t want to find you here again, unaccompanied, to create mischief.”

“Not bloody likely,” George said under his breath, then suddenly everything was quiet. He found himself marched past the stone wall leading into the house common room. Once inside, the spell was released, and he and George were subjected to taunts, catcalls, and then an enthusiastic rendition of ‘Weasley is our king’ by all of the Slytherins in the room.

George didn’t even pause to look at the omnipresent green and silver decorations as they walked even further into the catacombs of Slytherin house.

“Where do you think we’re going?” Fred asked, looking over his shoulder at him.

“No idea,” George replied.

After multiple twists and turns, they found themselves in front of an elaborately carved wooden door with a sturdy silver doorknocker in the middle. It was, unsurprisingly, in the shape of a snake.

They were suddenly in a realm without sound, and George sensed the magic in it. Snape had cast another silencing spell as he spoke the password.

“After you, Messers Weasley,” Snape drawled, and George suddenly knew where they were.

“Merlin,” George breathed, his anger threatening to explode out of the freckles on his arms. “The prefect’s bathroom.”

***

“Well,” Fred commented, looking venemously at the tiled shower floor he was scrubbing, “It can’t get any worse than this.”

George leaned back from the toilet he had half-heartedly wiped down, taking every precious bit of self-control not to think of whose arrogant arse had probably sat on it not long ago, and shook his head. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”

“When did you get so superstitious?” Fred asked, the disapproval heavy in his voice.

“I’m not susperstitious, so piss off,” George answered, returning to his unpleasant task.

“You are. Don’t you still carry around that bloody two-headed knut?”

George looked witheringly at his brother. “Not anymore, I don’t.” He resumed his attentions to the commode, and then the floor around it.

“Since when?”

“Piss off.”

“Fine.”

The twins laboured in silence, Draco’s haughty comments from when he had stood in the doorway until he got bored still hanging in the air.

No, George decided, it can’t get any worse than this.

Comments

[romanticalgirl.livejournal.com]

*sniffle*

Aw, my poor twinses! So used and abused. Do make sure you give them just a smidgen of fun, won't you? You know, when you write more.

Soon.

[thrihyrne.livejournal.com]

Do make sure you give them just a smidgen of fun, won't you?

Oh, yes. Once they get over through the experience of their dad almost dying, then they can have some Christmas fun.

You know, when you write more.

I'll do my best- I was at the office until 10 o'clock last night, which did not inspire me to any great heights of writing. Maybe later on this week. ;)

[romanticalgirl.livejournal.com]

I suppose I can wait with some semblance of patience. But not for long! Hee.

Applause, applause!

[(Anonymous)]

Hello, m'dear! It's Amy here. :) This keeps getting better and better! You're doing such a lovely job of showing all the threads unraveling and building the sense of impending catastrophe. I particularly appreciate getting to see the moment that the idea of the twins leaving Umbridge's Hogwarts is born. You have the voices down beautifully. I want to grab a pint and join in the pity party with them -- great atmosphere and building of tension/despair. Please let me know when there's more. You're on a roll here!