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Fred Weasley (weasleyforge) wrote in wished, @ 2009-07-31 23:21:00

Who: Fred and George Weasley
Where: The Burrow
When: July 27th, immediately after The Battle of the Seven Potters
What: Aftermath
Rating: Angst, Weasley Twin Style. AKA PG-13 for language.



Fred had seen the spell that almost hit his brother, and that ended up hurting Hagrid just long enough for a flash of green to send him down. He'd always respected Hagrid, and he'd mourn him, he would. But that absolutely was Not. The. Point. That spell had come at his brother. And Fred... well, he didn't quite know what to do with that. He'd been unnaturally quiet as they went through the safe houses and then on to the Burrow. When they'd sent news to Dumbledore. When the crying and the blank looks had started in earnest.

He went up to his and George's old room and sat down on his childhood bed, hand absently running over scorched marks in the wood frame. That spell had come at his brother, and he hadn't been close enough to push him out of the way.

George had spent the first ten minutes after they got back assuring his mum and dad that he was fine, and struggling not to think about watching Hagrid go down, cracking a few weak jokes that fell flat, and touching the side of his face when no one was looking. He'd felt the spell - it'd cut off a bit of his hair. Or singed it off, or something. George hadn't actually heard that hex before, so sod if he knew how it worked. He'd seen what it did though - blood and pain. He didn't want to know more about it, really. George liked blowing things up, not making them bleed. (Well. Unless they were a git, and then a punch to the nose was fun.)

He'd seen Fred slip off, and would have followed right away, but he couldn't quite shake his mum, and he was a little worried, waiting to hear the others come in. Finally though, the last of the Harry doubles were there, changed back into themselves - with the exception of the original, who was sitting in the corner, Hermione and Ron hovering when Molly wasn't, and Ginny not far either. George headed upstairs though, knowing where Fred would be without thinking about it. He never had trouble finding his twin - and the Burrow wasn't that bloody big anyway.

He felt a bit shaky still, really - adrenaline, not anything wrong with him - but tried not to show it as he tromped upstairs. He pulled open the door to their room and then slammed it behind him, walking over to drop on his own bunk. "Bill and Fleur are back, everybody else is in one piece." With the obvious exceptions. "You'll have to chop of your hair on the side, you know."

"You almost get killed and I have to get a poncy hair cut?" Fred answered automatically, shaking his head adamantly and kicking off his shoes. They smelled like air and ash, somehow. Which wasn't a particularly out of place smell in their old room, when you thought about it in context.

Hagrid had been yelling at George one minute, and a huge hulk of emptiness the next: frozen in pain and then in death. And if he'd been a minute slower on his broom? A little more focused on flying and not on the battle? Would that have been George? Fred swallowed hard and his second shoe kicked off harder than he meant it too, knocking over a lamp that had, until today, somehow remained intact in their room.

It hit the floor and shattered.

"Solidarity between brothers, you git. Man up and cut it off, or I'll just do it while you're asleep. Maybe slip some of that balding potion we're testing in and do the job all together," George countered.

He flinched though at the bluntness of the comment. Almost got killed. He had. And Hagrid had done it for him. George wasn't sure how he felt about that. Hagrid had been a good sort. Always looked the other way when he saw them sneaking off and on the grounds for one reason or another. Failed to notice that they kept a stash of firewhiskey (Emergency stash #4) in his cabin. And now he was dead and George wasn't. George was glad to be alive, but it was a high price. He wasn't even sure which Death Eater it had been trying to kill him, or that had gotten Hagrid instead. Moody was a blow, but George half thought the nutters old bastard hadn't expected to live through all of this anyway, this time around. Hagrid was different.

He flopped back on the bed, making a face. "Brilliant. Now we can't see." Since the room was dark without the lamp. George lit his wand with a muttered lumos, and then cast a lazy reparo, fixing the lamp - though it still had a crack in it, which made George think the crack had been there a while. He vaguely remembered an incident with the early versions of ton-tongues might have been to blame. "You're all right though, yeah?" he asked suddenly.

Him? Was he alright? Sure. He hadn't almost gotten knocked off his broom by some spell that had cut through things like a sword or a ... something else really bloody sharp. Fred had never heard the spell before. Sec... something? He couldn't be sure. In the chaos of the battle, spells had been yelled left and right. He knew the Killing Curse, though. Had seen that green flash cut out and hit Hagrid.

He flopped back onto his bed too, and blinked at the ceiling.

It was really sodding rare when Fred Weasley didn't know what to say. He realized a little detachedly that his fingers were fists at his sides on the bed, knuckles white, and that seemed to break the spell of it. "Fucking bastards, those cowards." He spat it, sitting up just as suddenly as he'd flopped back. "If it'd been anyone but the group of us - "

George sat up when Fred flopped back, looking at his twin. "We'll trounce them, later." It was a weak sort of reassurance, and George knew it, but he didn't really know what to say when they couldn't joke their way out of it. And you couldn't really joke when people were dead. It hadn't even felt this immediate when Cedric Diggory died. It'd had an impact, but not the same way. With nothing else to do, George just changed the subject. "So. Bit weird to see Bill snog Harry, you know." Since Fleur had stood in for Harry, too. "We should have gotten photos of that, then plastered them around the next time he needs a kick in the arse. Pass them to to Prophet."

Fred looked for a moment like he wasn't sure how to answer. They knew where the line was between fun and good taste, and you didn't joke about it when someone died to save your brother. But for maybe the first time ever, Fred didn't know what to say about any of it. And they'd never let something like fear stand in their way before, had they? Maybe changing the subject was the best way to get around it, in the long run. "Shame Ron hasn't got enough of a pair to grab 'Mione and snog her. Harry snogging Harry.... we'd be billionaires."

"You know, if we found a way to make Polyjuice faster, and with cheaper ingedients, we'd make a bloody fortune," George pointed out. "We could get Angie, or Ollie or Katie to talk to their league mates - see if they'd sell us their hair. Sell it as polyjuice packages. People can spend an hour as their favorite celebrity. Bored old couples will all want to shag as someone else for a night." Which was a bit gross when he thought about it. But it was loads better than thinking about how he'd almost died, and Hagrid HAD died. George wasn't trying to be disrespectful, he just didn't know how to process it, yet. Jokes and pranks came easier. Maybe when they were back at their flat and it sank in he'd be able to think through how he felt about it better.

"Maybe if we could find a way to preserve the lacewing flies... " Fred mused on it, glad to have something else for his brain to focus on. George dead - he couldn't think about that. Couldn't even make his brain try to wrap around it. It made his lungs burn and clench and he felt like he couldn't breathe. But quickening the Polyjuice recipe? He could think about that. "Or change the stewing process so they don't have to go the whole bloody month."

"Maybe we could just manage some cheaper replacements, and then make it in big batches and sell it bottled, if we could come up with a preservation charm," George answered, frowning a little in thought, fingers pulling at the scratchy old bedspread he sat on. He started to say something else, and then heard his mother's voice drift up from downstairs, asking after where they'd gone. George winced and eyed the door, wondering if blowing things up would keep her downstairs. He doubted it, that trick had stopped working somewhere around their third year, mostly. He loved his mum, he just wasn't really up for being smothered. He touched the side of his face again, and then exploded suddenly. "I didn't even see who the git was who did it!"

That made Fred sit up again, and he looked at his brother for maybe the first time since George had come into the room. His brother's hair was singed on one side, cut through like someone had been at him with a pair of bloody scissors. Fred had to swallow back the taste of bile and an angry urge to scream and hex something. Or punch something. There wasn't anything he could punch, wasn't anything he could do.

"Didn't either," He admitted. "Everything was going so bloody fast. I only saw the hex before he was there - " Knocking George out of the way. Making himself a giant sodding target.

George dropped his hand as Fred sat up, and then scowled. "It's bollocks. All of it. There should have been some sort of. . . real plan. Or a better way to get Harry out of there, then Moody and Hagrid would be downstairs getting henpicked by mum. And you wouldn't have to cut your hair and show that your ears stick out more than mine." Not really. But George insisted otherwise. George - and Fred - were action types in the end. If something didn't work, they wanted to find a way to make it. If something already existed, they wanted to improve it. (Preferably with explosions. Nothing was ever not improved by having something blow up.) They hadn't had anything to do with the plan other than be decoys though, and George suddenly wondered if they could have done it better if they'd tried. They weren't Aurors, but they were brilliant. That counted for something.

"Yeah, if we'd just - " But Fred stopped as soon as he'd started to say it, suddenly aware of just how useless that was. If they had, but they hadn't. And Hagrid was dead, and George had a stupid sodding haircut that Fred was going to have to get too, because even if he grumbled he didn't like not looking like his twin.

Instead of finishing, he got up and crossed the few steps to George's bed, sitting down next to him. He barely even realized as he adopted exactly the same posture as his brother. "Doesn't matter." He said, and then just as quickly, because the last thing Fred or George were was apt to give in to hopelessness, he added, "Next time, though." They'd make sure there was a better sodding plan than 'everyone be a target.'

George didn't lean into his twin, but he appreciated the closeness. He flashed a wan grin. "Bloody right next time." Maybe they could work out darkness powder with a wider effect. Or some sort of. . . decoy spell. Illusionary dupes instead of the real thing? It would have kept hexes from hitting flesh, at least.

It didn't do any good to dwell on this time though, and George grimaced once, and then turned to look at Fred, then lifted his wand, aiming it at the hair near his ear. "Ready? I promise to try to leave some to hide the way your ears flap. Probably."

Fred grimaced, but it was a show, because he didn't move at all with the threat of George's amateur barber skills. "No bald spots this time," He threatened, but sat still.