They'd 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, wands pointed at the intruders. They were
fast, but they'd also been caught off guard. Seconds later their wands
had been captured by the hooded figures who strode quickly toward them.
George soundly punched the face of the one who grabbed him around the
neck, and the Death Eater gasped, but he was undeterred. 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 a hold 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, still grabbing futilely for his
absent wand. Anger and shock ricocheted through his scattered thoughts.
"What the fuck?!" he heard Fred roar, who rose to his knees before a hex
hit him and he crashed back to the floor.
One of the two cloaked attackers 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 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.
"You're insane if you think we'll tell you anything!" George spat. He
found himself panting anxiously as a wand tip pressed to his chest, the
cat-like motions of the hooded wizard stunningly quick.
"We'll see about that," she replied, running the deadly intimate wood up
his tense neck along his pulsing veins. She tapped it under his chin
before tucking it under her robe. She turned and left the small room,
murmuring a spell before approaching the door, which closed deliberately
"Are you okay?" George asked his brother, who sat up gingerly.
"Never better," Fred replied sarcastically, 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 with his index finger the path on his
neck where the Death Eater's wand had traveled. "The shop," he moaned.
"How can you think about the shop?" Fred stared at him. "There're 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.
"Frantic," George finished the sentence.
Fred threaded a hand through his messy hair. "Bloody clock always says
mortal peril. S'pose it's right for once."
Silence hung heavy in the room, stifling like the locker room after a
lost Quidditch match.
"Shite, I hate this," 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. "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 don't like this at all,"
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 brothers explored the small confines of
"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."
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.
"You gave that one a pretty wicked punch," Fred replied, a wan smile on
his face. "I saw it before the bitch hexed me and I was out for a bit.
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's
raising all kinds of riots, and now." 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 soul-sucking, Death-Eating
nightmares! We have family in the Ministry! You can go to
Fred's tirade was silenced as George ran behind him and clamped a hand
roughly over Fred's mouth.
"Shut up!" he hissed. "Your other plan was better."
Fred roughly shouldered George in the chest 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 belt loops of his jeans. "No," he replied, beaten, staring
at his shoes. "I don't." He turned and walked to the other side of the
room, beginning to inspect every inch of wall.
Muttering more epithets, Fred started on the other side of the room.
It was eleven o'clock when the feline-acting Death Eater came into the
room. The twins were ready for her, Fred in the corner behind the door
and George across the way in the other. They both sprang, but mere
seconds and three hastily incanted spells later, George was writhing on
the floor. Fred followed her against his will, hit first by a Body-Bind
Curse and then a Mobilicorpus spell.
"Fred!" George rasped, his mind reeling in agony from the Crucio snarled
Then he was alone.
Not until five in the morning was his brother returned to him. The Death
Eater walked in, Fred stumbling 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
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 sighed. "Say something! Anything." He leaned in,
smoothing the unruly mess of hair, sucking in his breath when Fred
opened his eyes. They were a sickening sangria colour, save the pupils
and a vague aura of blue where the iris 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,
and sank into unconsciousness.
George wanted to vomit, but controlled himself. Instead, he sat mute,
heaving dry sobs with Fred's head in his lap, 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 duration 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
Crucio, he tried chewing on the glass of his timepiece. Once he came to
himself an hour or so later, he succumbed to beating it against the
earthen floor. The watch resolutely refused to break.
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'd thought neither of them could remember. It
wasn't uncommon for twins, identical twins in particular, to create
their own languages, and in that sense Fred and George were absolutely
unremarkable. During the one thousand and eighty 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, good or bad. He relived the tricks
and punishments, splintered with happiness and disappointments, all so
that he could relay them to Fred when he was returned to him.
Despite the memories, however, George was unable 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
"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 red
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 the while his
tears ran into Fred's shirt, though George occasionally wiped his nose
on his own filthy robe. He stopped after some time, shaking his brother
to make sure he was still alive. "Stay alive, 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 his brother. The next few minutes were chaos; voices
shouting, figures rushing around the prison, but to George's surprise,
no curses were hurled at his clenched jaw and adrenaline-shaken body.
Instead, strong, warm hands found a hold on his shoulder, and he sensed
a benevolent force behind him, knees brushing his unsheltered back.
Unwilling to let loose of his twin, George turned his head, his eyes
mere slits against the too-bright glow from the doorway. "No, Bill, you
idiot," he croaked, his throat raw from crying the night before. "I'm
George." 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.
George stood oddly calm. Silently he thanked 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. He cleared his throat, looked down at his notes and 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 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.
Padma Patil was almost an anti-Weasley; creamy, blemish-free ivory skin,
dark hair. Clad head to toe in black, she looked every bit the Ravenclaw
prefect that she would be in mere weeks. She was perfectly polished,
save her bloodshot eyes. She turned to George as he stepped down from
the podium before mounting the stairs in his place, looking out at the
"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 looked worriedly for a moment at George, who nodded before turning
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 suffer most dearly his loss.
This shows above all else," she continued, eyes lit like coals newly
extracted from a fire, "that the Death Eaters are uncaring murderers,
and no one should consider herself an unlikely target. This funeral
could be for George instead of Fred, or both- all they were guilty of
was getting people to have an occasional laugh."
A hush smothered the few comments which had been murmured after her
Suddenly deflated, Padma sighed, "That's all I have to say. I'm so
sorry, George." She clomped as elegantly as possible down the three
stairs in high heels and was grasped in a suffocating hug by her twin
George continued to stare toward 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
George and Ron leaned back in their chairs. In spite of the unseasonable
chill wind which breezed across the porch of Ron's Glasgow flat, they
both had their wide, bare feet propped on the metal railing.
"To Fred," Ron toasted, raising his glass.
"To Fred," George seconded.
They tossed back the peaty single malt which they now had each year in
"Shit, but that's 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 to living in Scotland." He looked meaningfully at
his brother, and offered him part of his fag.
George shook his head, smiling softly.
"I'm sure," he replied, watching 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, dropping the cigarette to the
cement. George gave the plume of smoke a hard look.
"I would grind that out, but
" Ron looked meaningfully at his bare foot.
George rolled his eyes. "Kick it over the side, you lazy git."
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,
The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, ©
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