When Fred and George were only five years old, their mother decided that they needed to start sleeping in separate beds. They had spent every night of their lives so far together in one bed, but Molly thought ahead and decided that it was better to separate them sooner rather than later. She knew it would grow to be a difficult task if she waited much longer.

So Molly turned one bed into two smaller ones, one on either side of the twins' tiny bedroom, and she spent the afternoon working up two quilts patched together from old robes. The quilt bearing the letter F went on the bed on the left, and the G quilt went on the bed on the right. Molly stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, admiring the results of her wandwork.

The boys would appreciate her efforts—of this Molly was certain. How nice it would be for each to have something all his own!

But in the morning, when she went to wake them, George's bed was empty and there were two little lumps huddled together under Fred's quilt.

Molly sighed. She knew her stubborn sons all too well. This might prove to be difficult after all. They had told her on more than one occasion, defiantly, that they'd always be together. And she believed them.

Ah, well. There was plenty of time to work on it before they went off to school.

***

The door creaked closed and George held his breath. He knew that in the bed across the room, Fred was doing the same. They were too old now for their mum to be doing this anymore, checking on them like this, but Bill said she still did it to him when he spent the night at the Burrow, so maybe it was an all right thing you just had to let your mum do sometimes.

After the shadow had disappeared from under the door and he had counted to twenty, George made his way across the room. He knew exactly which floorboards creaked, and he avoided them, and he was warm under the F quilt with his brother in moments.

Fred turned onto his side to accommodate George, and George sighed and wriggled and rubbed his bare feet against Fred's as he settled in.

For a moment, neither brother spoke, then, as George drew breath, Fred's voice came hot and low in his ear.

"Three more days."

"I know." George wriggled excitedly. "I was just going to say." For the past week, both twins had been recounting every story they had ever heard from their brothers about Hogwarts. They had packed and repacked their trunks over and over again, and had been absolutely bouncing off the walls until their mum threatened them with the chance that they might not live to see Hogwarts if they didn't calm down.

George was fairly certain he wouldn't last three more days without exploding, and he knew Fred felt the same.

Luckily, they'd found a way to deal with the excitement.

George wriggled further back against Fred. "Do you want to?"

Fred didn't hesitate. "Yeah." Fred pressed against George, and George pressed his hand to his crotch. He was getting hard already. Of course, that wasn't saying much—he'd been getting hard a lot lately, and usually at really embarrassing times. Bill had said that was all right when George and Fred (for it had been happening to Fred, too, just as often) had owled him for advice, and that was good enough, because they knew Bill wouldn't lie to them. Bill had said he was a little surprised—it hadn't started happening to him until he was in his second year at school, but he promised it was nothing to worry about, and that they should enjoy it.

And they did.

They didn't tell him how they dealt with their unexpected erections, or how good they had discovered it felt to rub against each other, just like they didn't tell their mum why they spent so much time alone together in their room or in the attic or lost in the trees around the back garden. Those secrets were theirs alone.

And so Fred pressed himself against George's bum as George shoved his pyjama bottoms down, and then George turned onto his other side and Fred had done the same with his pyjamas, and they pressed their penises together (though, George, reflected, maybe dicks was a more grown-up word—yes, that sounded much better) and god, it felt so good. They rubbed themselves together, clumsily kissing (they never had got too good at kissing; Fred always tried to take control of the kiss, but George would never let him, but it felt nice anyway), growing hands groping growing, changing bodies, fumbling in the darkness.

"Three more days," Fred whispered excitedly against George's ear, and George felt the little hairs on his neck prickle against Fred's warm breath, and he pushed himself closer, harder against Fred, his dick slipping up and slapping against Fred's stomach now, Fred's dick moving between George's thighs, and oh, George always liked when this happened; he imagined it was something like fucking, which was something Bill refused to explain to them yet, but George thought he mostly understood anyway.

"Three more days," George replied, and the excitement tore at him, spurred him on, and he held tightly to Fred's smooth bum, his fingertips digging into his brother's familiar flesh. He pressed and slid and bit his lip and pressed some more and slipped against Fred and yes, there it was, the good feeling, and a little bit of the clear stuff, and he knew Fred was having it too from the way he held George's head to his shoulder and panted and shuddered and choked, and George felt Fred's wetness on his thighs, and he knew.

"Wicked," Fred murmured against the damp skin just below George's ear. He flopped back on his pillow then and, after a moment, rustled around under the bedclothes. George knew Fred was cleaning himself off and dressing again, and so George fumbled on the floor by the bed and came up with something soft that might've been one of Fred's T-shirts and wiped himself, then fumbled around with his feet until he dragged his pyjama bottoms up with his toes, and he dressed himself under Fred's quilt.

"I'm still excited," he confessed after a silent moment.

"Me too," Fred admitted. "For school, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"Ye-ah," yawned Fred. "Three more days."

In three more days, the anticipation would be gone. They'd actually be at Hogwarts. They'd be sorted (Gryffindor, they'd hoped and hoped, but above all they'd hoped they'd be together). For now, though, excitement reigned.

But exhaustion was more powerful, after a full day, after all they'd accomplished. And that was good.

Fred fell asleep first. He always did. George found his brother's parted lips and covered them with his own, clumsily, and Fred made a happy, sleepy murmuring sound, and George crept back across the room, avoiding the creaky floorboards, to his bed and his G quilt.

He wriggled his toes against the cool cotton of his sheets. There was so much coming. But for now, they had excitement, and they had this. Them. Relief in the night, even momentarily, until sleep crept in and the brothers dreamed in tandem of the most magical place they'd ever hoped to see.

And seeing it—and being there—together.

Always together.