Leave Out All the Rest

Author's Note: Thanks so much for your reviews, RoadOfTheLine and Threequidd! I've been unable to post for a really long time - mixture of RL going crazy-busy and switching to a Mac and finding out I have file-compatibility issues - but it was wonderful to see that people were reading this story, and wanted to know what happened next. Hopefully the next updates won't take nearly as long!

ooo000ooo

January

"See you tomorrow," said Ron.

"Yeah, see you," said George, not looking up from the stacks of Knicker Knockers he was counting. "Have fun on your date."

"Yeah, and you have fun at the concert." Ron hung his uniform up and put his wand in his pocket. "Did you let Mum know you were going?"

"No, why?"

"She'd be glad to hear you're going out. She's been worried about you."

George shrugged. "What else is new?"

"Though not so much, now Christmas is over. What a fucking nightmare, for everyone."

"Should be better next year," said George absently, recording the number of Knicker Knockers and moving on to the Soylent Greenbeans. "At least that's what the Healer said."

"He's probably right. You've been in a better mood, anyway," he said. George gave him a small smile but didn't stop counting. "Anyway, say hi to Lee."

"Lee? Oh, tonight - yeah, no, he's not going. Got sick."

Ron stopped. "Oh."

"Yeah, rotten luck. He's the one who actually liked the Bleating Banshees in the first place. Plus he wanted to visit that new curry place before the concert."

"You're going by yourself?"

George nodded.

"I could... if you want, I can--"

George glanced up at him, a small smile quirking his mouth. "Thanks, but I'm not keen on Hermione serving up my bollocks to me if I let you. She's been looking forward to this how long?"

Ron made a dismissive gesture. "If it's for you, she--"

"Ron. Go see your girlfriend."

"I don't have to--"

"To be honest, I wasn't that upset when Lee cancelled on me; I've had a splitting headache all day and there's still inventory to be done before I go, and I didn't particularly feel like making conversation." He finished with the Soylent Greenbeans and moved on to the Gargoyle Gaggers. "Now, go see that girlfriend of yours and tomorrow I'll tell you all about the Banshees, and you can tell me all about how far she let you get under her skirt."

Ron laughed. "Speaking of Hermione serving up anyone's bollocks..."

George chuckled. "Coward. Go have fun. You've earned it. You've gone above and beyond your brotherly duty, as usual. Thanks."

Ron's eyebrows went up. "Thanks. See you tomorrow."

"Don't forget to lock up the front."

Ron nodded, and stepped out. He waved his wand at the door, and did up his cloak. Let's see, he had his wand, he had Hermione's gift, he had money... he started to walk down to the Apparition point, allowing himself to think of Hermione and their date. It had been wonderful seeing her over the hols, but this long-distance thing was getting old. Especially as the hols hadn't exactly been filled with cheer, considering Mum and George and Ginny and - well, all of them, really, struggling through it.

Things were better, now. It seemed they had found some kind of peace in the last few weeks. Mum wasn't so clingy, George wasn't so broody and angry. He wasn't as he had been - God knew he probably never would be - but he seemed to have his sense of humour back. And Ron was certainly feeling a hell of a lot better.

How much of it all had to do with getting out of Auror training, though? No longer being pulled in fifty different directions, but able to devote himself to the shop and George, and to Hermione, and to his own need to heal? And he was keeping up with the Aurors, studying at night, without the grueling pace of active training.

'Need to heal', and studying voluntarily. The hell. He was starting to sound like Hermione.

He stopped, and groaned. Study. He'd forgotten his bloody Surveillance textbook. He stood in the snow for a moment, annoyed at himself, trying to decide whether to return and pick it up or not. On the one hand, he didn't want to be late for Hermione, but on the other hand...

No, it was for studying. She would understand. He sighed, and started back towards the shop.

He swore as he reached it and found it dark - George had apparently finished inventory and gone off to dinner already. Ron took out his wand and undid the wards, trying to remember where he'd left the text. Maybe in the lab?

He made his way downstairs, puzzled to find the lab door slightly open, light spilling out from inside, and peered in. A cauldron was bubbling away in the corner, and Ron felt a stab of annoyance. Bugger all this for a lark, no matter how harmless a potion seemed, really, brewing when you were alone was just plain stupid, and especially if you were supposed to be heading out for a concert--

George lay crumpled on the floor next to the cauldron, a stirring spoon on the floor beside him.

Ron's heart gave a sharp stab and he rushed to George's side and dropped to his knees.

Oh God. Oh God oh fuck oh God, he touched George's throat and mouth - fuck, not breathing, though he at least had a pulse. Time slowed down as Ron's instinct and training kicked in. Bezoar. In pocket, always, at Wheezes, and he opened George's mouth and slipped it in, dimly he was aware that he should probably be relieved, but felt nothing but a cold logical Yes as George shuddered and heaved a breath.

Good. Now he had a bit of time. A bezoar would counteract the immediate deadly effects of a bad potion or poison, but as Ron's own stay in the infirmary in sixth year had shown, it usually wasn't enough to totally negate the damage. So the next questions to answer were: what the hell had George been working with, and how was Ron going to get him to St. Mungo's. The Personal Test wards they'd put up should've alerted St. Mungo's after a minute of George not saying the counter-spell - he checked the Ward Board and felt fleeting impatience at George, it wasn't a two-minute Personal Test Alarm but a fifteen-minute Object Test Alarm, he was really going to kill George and put his foot down about brewing alone, period.

All right, that meant he only had at most fifteen minutes before St. Mungo's was alerted anyway.

He took his DA Galleon and spoke a spell to let Hermione know where he was, and that he needed her here immediately. He turned back to George, making sure he was still breathing and noting his signals just like Auror training had taught him to. Breath slow and uneven, pale, skin dry, tremors shaking him, heartbeat unsteady--

Dimly he heard Hermione calling out to him in the shop.

"In the lab!" he called back, and moved George onto his back, putting his head to George's chest and listening for a moment. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, heartbeat gone and all right, what was it his instructors had told him about Muggle resuscitation techniques when there might be poisons or charms that might interfere with magical resuscitation...

The door opened. "What the--"

"He's poisoned, I don't know with what," said Ron, getting into position straddling George and starting chest compressions, one-two-three-four-five-six - "I've lost his pulse and he isn't breathing, but the poison itself is out of his system." He reached thirty compressions, moved beside George, tilted his head back, pinched his nose and breathed into his mouth. "I'm doing AR and can't Apparate us out." He breathed again. "We're also going to need to bring along whatever he took. I think it's in that cauldron."

"Right," said Hermione crisply, and if Ron could've taken the time, he would've cheered as she went into Competent Mode, but he was busy pushing against George's chest, willing his heart to start beating again, willing his lungs to fill without Ron's help. "I'll deal with his wards and take a sample from the cauldron."

Ron nodded, breathing into George's mouth again, then compressing his chest. "The wards will lower when St. Mungo's is called anyway, but I don't want to wait that long." George's skin was still warm, although the pallor of his face brought back a horrible flashback to Fred's corpse. He averted his eyes from George's closed eyes, with his body jerking slightly in time to Ron's compressions.

"D'you know what's in the cauldron?" said Hermione. "And why can't you do an Ennervating spell or something for his heart?"

Ron looked up between compressions, and Merlin, George wasn't moving, his body lying limp. "Can't, not unless I know what poisoned him. What colour is it?" He knelt down, breathed into George's mouth again and noted a Banshees concert ticket sticking out of his shirt pocket, small curry stain on his collar.

"Light blue, opaque, about five cups worth, smells like--"

"Lemon, right, that's Chameleon Chaser potion, half-batch." Ron started compressions again, trying to remember all the ingredients. Damn, it had jonquils, which would react with Ennervate, just his luck, and he spotted a piece of paper next to George's hand. A napkin from Pandoora's Kitchen, curry sauce on the corner of the napkin, hellebore x 2? scrawled and scratched out in George's messy hand, followed by hellebore x 3? The floor needed sweeping, too. Ron blanked his mind of irrelevant thoughts; funny the things that went through your mind while you desperately tried to revive your incompetent irresponsible arse of an older brother, who was evidently far more concerned with making a potent Chameleon Chaser than making sure he didn't, you know, die.

The seconds seemed interminable as Ron pushed and breathed, and Hermione dealt with the wards, muttering to herself. Finally she gave a satisfied cry. "They're down," she said.

George suddenly coughed and breathed in.

"Good," said Ron. "Let's go." He glanced at his watch and frowned. Sixteen minutes since he'd arrived; the wards should've dinged St. Mungo's by now. He glanced at the small timer clock next to the Ward Board, set to twelve-thirty. He lifted George into his arms, shifting to support his neck as his head fell limply back, and rose to his feet. Hermione grabbed the cauldron, ingredients and napkin, and they Apparated directly into St. Mungo's.

Immediately staff surrounded them, taking George and laying him onto a stretcher, babbling questions at Ron and Hermione.

"We've got the potion recipe and some of the ingredients," said Hermione, and the St. Mungo's Potions specialist whisked them from her with a thankful smile.

"Ron?" Ron turned from George's still form to see Harry running into the hospital emergency room. "Are you all right?"

"What?"

"My Galleon just gave me your message to Hermione," he said. "I got to Wheezes just in time to hear you pop out. Guessed you might be here."

"George had an accident at the shop lab," said Hermione. "Ron found him and we brought him here."

Harry frowned, looking over to where George was being worked on by staff. "He was alone in the lab? Testing?"

Hermione shook her head quickly. "Oh, no no - he was brewing. Just an accident. He was making a batch of Chameleon Chaser." She turned to Ron. "Didn't you tell me you were having a bit of trouble with that?"

"Yeah, the colours weren't bright enough," said Ron, his voice sounding hollow to his ears. "We'd talked about making it more potent."

"That's what he'd written on the napkin, then. He put in more hellebore."

"Three times as much as the regular recipe," said Ron.

"That shouldn't have been lethal."

"Only he was making a half-batch and didn't figure that in, so three times as much turned into six times."

Hermione clapped a hand to her forehead. "And then he used the wrong Alarm spell. What a cock-up. It's a good thing you showed up; it might've been too late by the time the wards dinged St. Mungo's. Bloody hell, maybe he'll finally stop brewing alone after this, no matter what wards you have, it's not safe to--"

"It wasn't a cock-up," Ron broke in. "It was a suicide attempt."

Hermione and Harry turned to him in shock. "What?!"

"He misbrewed it deliberately," said Ron.

"But - he didn't mean to--"

"It was supposed to look like an accident," said Ron, his hands starting to shake. "He had a napkin from Pandoora's and a ticket to the Banshees, but there wasn't time for him to have eaten yet and the Banshees concert hasn't even started yet. His breath didn't smell of curry either. After we found his body, the napkin and ticket stub were supposed to make it look like he'd gone to supper, then the concert, come home, then misbrewed."

"But--"

Ron felt his legs trembling and put a hand on the wall waiting room wall. No, he couldn't lose it. Not yet. "The Alarm ward wasn't just wrong; it wasn't even cast yet," he said, and swallowed. "The timer clock next to it was set to twelve-thirty. It was supposed to activate at twelve-thirty, give him fifteen minutes, then ding St. Mungo's. They were supposed to get there and find him dead already, and it was all supposed to be an unfortunate accident. Bastard. If they manage to save his life, I'm going to kill him."

Harry and Hermione stood gaping at him, then turned to George. Ron's breath was coming more quickly now, his entire body shaking with the aftereffects, now that George was somebody else's responsibility.

Suicide. George had tried to off himself. What they'd all feared, ever since Fred's death, had almost happened.

Hermione took him by the hand and led him to the nearest bench. "Ron, you need to call your family."

Ron shook his head. "No."

"You can't keep this to yourself."

"I can't. It'll kill them. Besides, he didn't want us to know, and none of us would've known, if..." He pushed his hair back, noting his hand was shaking rather badly. He took a breath. "Percy. He'll know what to do. That's who George called back in September."

"He also had Lee with him when he checked in."

"Lee's sick." Ron paused and shook his head. "No, he's probably not. George probably slipped him something so he'd miss the concert tonight. So George could do... this."

"All right, Ron, I'm going to call Percy," said Hermione. "Ron?" He looked up. "I'm going to call Percy. I'll be back. Harry?"

Harry started and moved to Ron's side, sinking down to the bench beside him. Ron stared blankly at the mediwizards as they roughly pushed back George's hair and made weird wand movements that drew lighted symbols over his temples, the base of his throat, the middle of his chest, his wrists, and his closed eyes.

It seemed like only moments until Ron heard the door open. He looked up at Percy, wearing a casual shirt, no tie, and had a flashback. Telling on Fred and George to their older brother, and feeling like a sneak, knowing that Percy would make sure they got in the proper amount of trouble for whatever they'd done.

"What's happened?" asked Percy. He glanced at George and the mediwizards, and blanched. "Hermione's been giving me some of the details. Misbrewed potion? And you don't think it was an accident?"

"It was supposed to look like an accident. He bloody well tried to kill himself." Ron stared at Percy, anger beginning to bubble up past the numbness and fear of the last hour. After everything they'd done for George, everything Ron had done for him, given up on the Aurors, worked day and night at the bloody shop, worried about him, visited him in the hospital, worked with family and friends looking after him, tried so fucking hard to help him - though both twins had been the bane of Ron's existence through their childhoods, and George still was - Ron was tempted to tell the mediwizards to step back and let him fucking well die, if that's what he really wanted. It was like every flashback to Fred and George was bubbling up, and once again Ron was running to Percy and crying to him while Fred and George laughed at him, using his Puffskein as a Bludger, turning his teddy bear into a spider and his hair into feathers, not caring at all how much they hurt him - and he glared at George, still and pale as the mediwizards worked on him. Lying there silently just like Fred, ripping their hearts out all over again, just like Fred, except Fred hadn't done it deliberately, Fred would've fought like hell to keep living if he'd only had a chance. Fred hadn't meant to hurt any of them, but George hadn't given a shit. Looking exactly like Fred, only Fred had died a hero and George would've died a bloody coward, taking the easy way out, as if he was the only one who cared that Fred was gone, as if the rest of them hadn't gone through hell too, as if the rest of them could stand to bury another brother, another son, less than a year after the first one, and bloody hell they were in no way alike.

Vaguely he could feel Hermione put a hand on his arm, but he shook her off impatiently, speaking to Percy. "He was just going to die, in the testing room, and we were going to find him and think it was a fucking accident instead of, of--" he was so angry he couldn't speak. An accident. If Ron hadn't been an idiot and left behind his book, he would've walked in to work tomorrow only to find another dead brother.

Actually, no, he wouldn't have; the wards would've dinged to St. Mungo's and some emergency crew would've gone in, and by the time Ron showed up the next day it would've been all over and a St. Mungo's Healer would've called Mum and Dad to tell them that they were down to five kids now. And the ticket stub in George's pocket, and the dinner plans he'd talked about, would've made it seem like it was just an unfortunate accident...

They would've thought it was an accident. They never would have known that George was so fucking miserable he'd chosen to end his own life rather than keep struggling to find meaning in it.

None of them would've known.

They never would have known just how desperate he was. They wouldn't have known that he'd had to plan to make it look like it was just an unfortunate accident, so that none of his family would find his dead body, none of them would know that they'd failed him. George would have lived his last moments completely alone, with nobody to know how much he hurt, nobody to try to ease his pain, no goodbyes, nobody to hold him, try to breathe life back into his body.

Not like Fred, who'd died among brothers and friends, full of fierce joy to his very last breath. Nothing like Fred at all.

Ron blinked, only realizing his eyes had filled with tears from the sudden coolness on his cheeks as they spilled over. He turned back to the mediwizards working over George, who lay still and pale and unresponsive, his fingers potion-stained, their nails bitten down to the quick. His frame too slender, full of the small scars of the last several years as a prankster and the last months pushing himself every single day just to get through the day at all.

"Oh my God, George," Ron whispered, and his voice broke.

Percy sat down next to him and pulled Ron into his arms, and Ron was forcibly reminded of stumbling to Fred's side during the break in the battle at the school, the entire family gathered around his dead body, George sitting hollow-eyed at his head, and Percy clinging to Ron for comfort for once.

He lay his head on Percy's shoulder and let the tears come.

"We failed him." He couldn't stop seeing George in his mind's eye, taking the potion alone, lying down to die alone, as he had never been since before he and Fred had breathed their first breaths. As he had been since the moment Fred breathed his last.

Percy shook his head, his voice tight. "We didn't. We tried. He tried. It just wasn't enough."

"I should have known. I work with him. I thought he was better--"

Percy cleared his throat. "I thought so too. He seemed better. The last few weeks..."

George had seemed better. He'd seemed calmer. He'd smiled at all the right times, joked with customers, cleaned and organized the shop with calm efficiency, and the weight that had seemed to press down on him for months had seemed to lift.

Ron buried his head on Percy's shoulder, sobs racking him, and felt Percy break down as well.

"God, we've all tried so bloody hard," Percy said brokenly. "We just can't. We can't help him."

And they couldn't. All of George's brothers and his sister, and his parents, and Harry and Hermione and Lee as well, were simply not enough. They couldn't replace the half of George that was gone forever. He could hear Harry and Hermione's grief as well, all of them frustrated and angry and scared, and sobbing in a huddled group together because there was nothing else to be done.

All right, he needed to get a grip and bring himself back under control. He shuddered and took a deep breath, raising his head from Percy's shoulder. "Merlin, look at all of us," he said, wiping his eyes. "Fred would be laughing at us right now."

Percy shook his head. "Can you imagine Fred laughing while George was in pain?" he asked. "I missed the chance to get to know Fred as an adult. But I can't see him doing anything other than crying harder than any of us right now."

Ron nodded. And he could almost feel Fred's presence among them, feel his pain and fear, feel him almost as though he could touch him. Could almost see him standing over George, as the mediwizards continued to work on him, their wands making odd patterns of light over him. One of the mediwitches moved away from George and approached them.

"How is he?" Hermione asked her.

"He's fighting," said the mediwitch. "He's very strong."

"That's... that's good, isn't it?"

"No, he's not fighting to live," said the mediwitch. "He's fighting against us." Ron wiped his cheeks, and the mediwitch pulled up a chair in front of him and Percy. "He will be all right. Physically. You got the poison out of his system, and there's three of us and only one of him. He'll remain unconscious for a long time, but he's no longer in any danger of death or permanent damage. You saved your brother's life."

Somehow that didn't seem comforting at all.

"He seemed better," said Percy, his voice soft. "Ever since after Christmas."

"Maybe he was better because he'd figured out what he was going to do," said the mediwitch quietly. "Sometimes when people have worked out a plan, they feel better. They feel as though whatever pain they're in is going to have an ending, and it makes it easier for them to cope with it." She cleared her throat. "He will have to be admitted to the Mental Maladies ward, though," she said. "I believe he was here a few months ago?"

"Yeah. Checked himself in voluntarily," said Ron.

"He won't have a choice this time," the mediwitch said. "And he probably won't be terribly pleased when he wakes up."

Ron shook his head. "No, I suppose not."

"He'll be all right," said the mediwitch. "He's breathing on his own now, and we've got him stabilized. We're going to move him to the ward. Could you stay and complete some paperwork for us?"

Ron gazed at George, who looked pale but peaceful. He stood and moved to George's side and touched his arm, then dropped his hand as the orderlies wheeled him away.

"It would also be good to decide now who will be with him when he awakens," said the mediwitch. "We should also discuss his condition with a few more family members."

Ron and Percy exchanged a look. "I'll do the paperwork," murmured Percy. "You think about what we're going to tell people for now. Then we'll talk to George after he wakes up, see what he wants."

Ron nodded, and the door burst open. "What happened?" Ginny asked, running in, panic-stricken, a nauseated-looking Lee right behind her. "Is George all right?"

Oh shit. "He's fine," Ron said hastily. "What happened? Why are you here?" And bugger it all, this was not on; he and Percy hadn't had a chance to decide what to tell the rest of the family--

"I went home and I looked at the clock - George's hand pointed to Mortal Danger for a bit, then back to Lost. I've been going frantic trying to find him. Went to Lee's and his location spell said George was here."

"You have a spell that checks on George's whereabouts?"

"Yeah," said Lee defensively. "Look, I've been worried about him, all right? It's not... stalking or anything. He won't let us worry too much."

"He had an accident," Percy stepped in smoothly. "With a product he was brewing. He's all right."

"Why the hell didn't you tell anybody?" asked Ginny.

"Didn't want to worry everyone, it wasn't that serious--"

"Not that serious?" Lee repeated. "Mortal Danger and taken to St. Mungo's isn't that serious?"

"You're shaking," Ginny said to Ron, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Nothing, just, you know, pissed at him," Ron said, deciding to follow Percy's lead. "He was fine. We didn't call you because he was fine."

"What the hell aren't you telling us?" She looked at all four of them, and all of them projected blankness back. "Harry," she said, her voice low. "You promised. No more secrets."

Harry swallowed but shook his head. "Gin, there was no need to worry anybody. He made a mistake, that's all."

"Gonna kill him when he wakes up, though," Ron said, striving for an annoyed tone. "He knows better. Maybe this'll teach him to finally listen to us when we tell him not to brew alone."

Percy gave a short laugh. "Fat chance. I think we'll have to set wards so you actually can't do anything alone in the lab."

Ron nodded. "Yeah. Bill can help. And if George doesn't like it, he can fuck himself. I'm not doing this again."

Hermione nodded, patting his arm, and squeezed his hand.

Lee stared at all of them, then at Ginny. "Good luck trying to convince him," he said, his voice carefully neutral.

"He won't have a choice," Ron said grimly. "I'll quit if he doesn't agree to it."

Ginny's suspicious glare hadn't abated one bit. Her eyes narrowed again and she stepped closer to Ron. "You've been crying," she said evenly.

Ron felt himself flushing. "Erm, well it was upsetting. It could've been quite serious. We were worried--"

"You just said you didn't contact anybody else because you didn't want to worry us," Lee said flatly. "Because it wasn't that serious."

"There wasn't any point, he was--"

"You're lying," Ginny said angrily. "All of you. What really happened?"

"He tried to off himself, did he?" Lee said, his voice still flat, and the utter stillness of the room was all the answer they needed.

ooo000ooo

George opened his eyes and gazed blurrily at the ceiling. Ron could tell the exact moment when he realized where he was. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to move to his side, his eyes opening again as he realized he was restrained.

"What the--"

He looked up as Mum leaned forward.

"Where am I?" he said.

"You're at St. Mungo's," she said, her voice calm but still hoarse from hours of weeping.

"Why'm I--"

"Ron found you and brought you here. You're being restrained so you won't harm yourself. Again."

"What?"

Ron cleared his throat. "We know, George."

"Know what?"

"You tried to off yourself last night." Ron looked away, unable to look at George, to hear his denials. "You wanted it to look like an accident, and it would've if I hadn't happened to come back to the flat five minutes after I left. We know, George."

There was a long silence.

"If you knew," George said, his voice calm, "why did you stop me?"

Ron looked up. "Stop you from killing yourself?"

George nodded, his eyes glittering with something undefined.

"You expected us to just let you?" Mum said faintly.

"Why the hell not?"

Neither of them had an answer for that.

George closed his eyes and lay back, breathing deeply. "Let me go."

"No," said Mum.

"Let me go. Please."

"Not a chance," said Mum. "You're ill, and you're going to be taken care of until you're well again."

"I am never going to be well again, Mum," he said bitterly. "I don't want to be here and I'm not going to stay. Let me go."

"There will be somebody here with you at all times," said Mum, just as the Healers had coached her to. "The Healers prefer to have patients watched by people rather than relying on magical restraints. Dad and I will take turns being here, and when we can't be, Bill and Percy and Ron will be here."

George grimaced. "Ickle Ronniekins? You're going to set my little brother to babysit me?"

"We would ask Ginny as well," Mum said, "but she has to go back to school. The last time, you kept everyone away and discharged yourself before you were ready. This time, you won't be able to go until you really are better again."

George's forehead creased and he struggled against the restraints, but they held firm. "God, I wish I'd been at that wall when it blew up," he said, closing his eyes and lying back down again.

Ron felt his face draining of colour. "You couldn't have done anything, George," he said. "None of us could. If you'd been there all that would've happened is you might've died, too."

He knew the moment he said it that it had been the wrong thing to say, as George opened his eyes again and gave a bitter laugh. "Ron, how fucking thick are you?" he said. "I know none of you could've saved him. Still wish I could've been there, to take his place."

"How can you wish it had been you instead of him?" Mum asked quietly. "How can you say that?"

"He would've handled this better. I'm sorry, I tried. I did my best but I can't--" He broke off. "He'd be so ashamed of me," he whispered.

"What?" said Mum.

"Fred. We... we talked about this, before, we knew this might happen, and we were going to just deal with it and get on with our lives, try to honour each other by not wallowing. I tried, but... I've let him down. He'd be ashamed of me, if he could see me now."

There was a long pause.

"Well, I don't know if he would or not," said Mum. "But I know I am."

"Mum?!" Ron blurted, horrified, but George didn't react.

"Not because you're in here," Mum said, her voice shaking. "But because of what you just said. He would've - your brother loved you! He would've wanted to help you, he would never have judged you! You of all people should know that! The idea--"

"Mum, that's enough," Ron broke in.

"Don't you ever say anything like that again," said Mum, getting up. "Don't! Fred deserves better than that from you. He would've had more compassion than any of us; he would've understood, he would never have wanted his memory to be something that hurt you or made you feel worse. Don't you ever spit on his memory like that again!"

Ron stood up too, and put a hand on Mum's arm. "Mum. Why don't you go home? Please. I'll stay with him."

"Look, I will never be better again!" George said, laying his head back on the bed and glaring at Mum. "You can pretend all you want, but it's not going to happen! You can tell yourself we'll all be all right some day until you're blue in the face, but we never will be! And you can get the hell out of my fucking room, because I don't want you here! I don't want any of you!"

ooo000ooo

"I know you never got on with my father, sir," said Draco Malfoy. Arthur suppressed a snort at the understatement. "But I also know that you are a fair man, and what the Ministry's doing isn't fair."

"Your side never cared about fair," Arthur pointed out.

"And you fought against us for that," said Malfoy, his tone more respectful and subdued than his father's had ever been. "You won, sir. You deserved to, and we are all grateful that you were able to."

Arthur gave Malfoy a skeptical look, and Malfoy swallowed and continued. "We are grateful, believe it or not. We couldn't put down what we'd called up. And, unlikely as it seems, we are willing to pay for our misdeeds." He gazed at Arthur seriously. "But we still have some rights. Or rather, we should. If you can speak for us - not defend us, or what we did; only point out that we deserve legal representation too - that will help the process be fair."

"Why would I want to?" said Arthur.

"Because it's the right thing to do, sir, and you know it," said Malfoy.

Arthur stared at him.

"And so that nobody can hold grievances legitimately. So that people who believed as we believe can't say that we were punished unfairly. So that we can all move forward."

Arthur dropped his eyes. It was a sad, sad day when a Malfoy realized that a Weasley wasn't just going to do the right thing because it was the right thing to do. An even sadder thing when a Weasley knew what the right thing was, but just couldn't be arsed to care any more.

Arthur rubbed his forehead, his eyes coming to rest on the picture of his family that had been in his office since the day Bill had gone off to school. He gazed at Bill, eleven years old, wearing his most serious expression, his eyes sparkling with eagerness to be off to school. Charlie, nine, aching to follow his brother, impatient at being kept back with the "babies." Percy, six, trying to look like a big boy but surreptitiously sucking his thumb every so often. The twins, four years old, identical plasters on their elbows and knees, and eyes bright with excitement as they stared at the crowd bustling about them. Five minutes after the picture had been taken, they had both disappeared, and the Hogwarts Express had almost left late as everyone frantically tried to locate them, and finally found them in the ladies' room, trying to make a toilet explode. Ron, two years old, was crying in Arthur's arms, and Ginny, barely one, was sleeping peacefully in Molly's.

So much had changed. He gazed at the twins as they climbed onto Bill's suitcase.

He sighed. "I can't help you."

Malfoy cleared his throat. "Sir, I--"

"I'm sorry, son," said Arthur. "You're not wrong. I mean, I do hope your father rots in Azkaban for the rest of his life," he ignored Malfoy's soft indrawn breath, "but you're right, he does deserve legal representation before that's decided." He shook his head. "But I can't speak for him. I'm going on leave as of tomorrow. I'm sorry."

Malfoy gazed at Arthur curiously, his head to the side.

"I am sorry," Arthur repeated softly.

Malfoy nodded, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "All right, sir. Thank you for hearing me out."

"You're welcome," said Arthur. "And... good luck, for what it's worth."

"Thank you." Malfoy stood up, and went to the door. Then he paused, and turned. "Sir, I... I'm sorry about your son."

Arthur stared at him, and then gave a mirthless laugh, his throat going tight. "Which one?"

"Pardon me?"

"Which one? The one who was mauled, the one who died, or the one in St. Mungo's?" Malfoy's eyes widened slightly, and Arthur sighed and shook his head. "Goodbye, Mr. Malfoy."

Which one, thought Arthur as he picked up his photograph and traced a finger over the images there. His boys, his wonderful boys whom he loved more than life itself, seen grow from tiny babies to strong men he was so proud of... and he hadn't been able to protect a single one of them. The only one who had escaped relatively unscathed was Charlie. The others... one horribly scarred, one left the family for three years, one spent a year on the run - even his daughter had been tortured and terrorized during that hideous year after Dumbledore had died.

And his twins, his exasperating, amazing twins. The lucky one was six feet underground and forever twenty. The unlucky one...

"Which son? It's not Ron, is it?" Malfoy asked quietly and Arthur looked up, surprised to see him still there. "The one in the hospital?" Arthur's eyebrows went up. "Is it George? The other twin?

Arthur closed his eyes in pain. "Yes. George. The other twin." He sighed. "Mr. Malfoy, go home. I'm sorry; I can't do anything for you." He didn't bother to look around as Malfoy's footsteps slowly receded. Then he heard a soft cough.

"I'm... I'm sorry, sir," Malfoy said.

Arthur sighed. "Yes. Well. So am I."

ooo000ooo

ooo000ooo

"I don't want to do this any more," said George quietly. "I can't."

"What do you mean?" asked Donald.

"I just want it to end."

"What does that mean to you? Wanting it to end?"

George shrugged. "I want to die. This isn't life. This is just existing with no purpose."

"What do you imagine would be better if you died?"

"Nothing. But it wouldn't be worse."

"Do you believe you will see your brother again?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Do you look forward to the afterlife?"

"Not really. I'm not sure I believe in it."

Donald blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I don't know if I believe in an afterlife."

Donald's forehead creased. "But you're a wizard. You've been to Hogwarts. You've seen ghosts."

"They're ghosts. Not people."

"What do you mean?"

"I know, most people believe that ghosts are people who chose not to go on to the afterlife, and instead chose to stay half-alive. I'm not sure I believe that."

"What do you believe?"

"I think ghosts are just bits of magic. The way magic portraits are magic. A magic portrait isn't real. It's not the soul of the person who died. It's just their likeness captured in magic. It can respond and react the way the person could, but it's not the person. Any more than a character on those Muggle telly shows is a real person. I think that's what ghosts are."

Donald seemed to be having trouble processing this. "Then... you don't believe in an afterlife?"

"Not really."

"Then why want to end your life?" Donald asked, baffled.

"It's just the end of your body. There's nothing after. No pain."

"And that's worth it, to you?"

"Yes."

ooo000ooo

"Where the hell is the git" Fred asked irritably, checking his watch.

"He'll be here," said George. "Unless he's got detention." He grinned. "Or he's snogging that girlfriend of his."

Fred sniggered, then checked his watch and drummed his fingers on the low wall they were perched upon. "Come to think of it, where is everybody? For a Hogsmeade weekend, this place is a bloody tomb."

"Yeah it's beginning to give me the willies. D'you think everyone's just too afraid to come out?"

"They may have cancelled it. Dad said they were considering it."

George nodded.

"Let's go ask Rosmerta. We've been here almost an hour and I haven't seen a single student."

"D'you have somewhere to be?" Fred gave George an annoyed look. "Oi, silly git," chuckled George. "Don't turn into Percy, upset because your perfect colour-coded schedule's been thrown off. It's a nice day out, we're out of the lab, Verity's got everything under control, we got to see Zonko's, and it'll be worth the wait to see him open up the InsideOuter."

Fred grinned. "I can't wait for him to try to Nosebegone, myself."

"He's not that thick, you know," George laughed. "He'll get someone else to try that one first."

"Nah, he'll be too shocked at us for telling him the effects of the rest of 'em."

"Two Galleons says he still gets Hermione to check every single one," said George.

Fred grimaced. "Mm-mm, Harry said it sounds like they're still not speaking."

"Well then maybe the Love Me, Love Me-knot will make them, erm, close again."

Fred sniggered. "And if they can trigger the Moonlit Serenader spell, we'll all be able to--"

"That one's a bit mean, don't you think?"

Fred shrugged. "Nah. He's a big boy. It's time he gets on with it, anyway."

George nodded and leaned back on the wall, closing his eyes and turning his face towards the sun. Fun as it was to live, breath and eat Wheezes, he had to admit that getting out of the constant noise and action, and just enjoying the feel of sun on his face and the soft hooting of owls at the Hogsmeade Post, was remarkably soothing. Especially considering the gloom and doom in the papers and the wizarding world in general. And the low nagging worry of the War, and the Order, and dealing with Mum's attitude over their recent induction into it. Suppers back at The Burrow just weren't the same with her fears constantly nagging at them.

He sat up, pushing thoughts of their first, near-fatal, mission out of his head. "This Lavender of his," he said. "D'you remember her at all? I know she was in the DA, but..."

"Ringlets and tits is all I remember, mate," said Fred.

"Not too big, but nice and bouncy - for both, if I recall."

Fred nodded. "She didn't seem the brightest candle in the chandelier, but then Ronnie's not exactly a shoo-in for that position either."

"Point. Think he's copped a feel yet?"

Fred laughed. "Think Hermione would've found a way to hex him if he had. 'Pervy bastard' in boils across his forehead?" He paused. "What d'you think she sent him at Christmas?"

"Who, Hermione? You just said they're not speaking."

"No, ringlet-girl. She sent him something, remember?" He scowled at George. "Something which you didn't let me use the Scope to peek at."

George shrugged. "The poor kid deserves some privacy. After all we've put him through."

"Oi, you're getting sentimental in your old age. Stop it."

George glanced around. "Call me old and you're only calling yourself older. Though I must say, being back here's bringing on an old age feeling like you wouldn't believe. I can feel my hairline receding."

They looked around. Somehow Hogsmeade seemed so much smaller than it had been less than a year ago. This time last year, Umbridge had been in full command of the school and they had been busily planning their escape from the educational prison that Hogwarts had become. Now...

"D'you miss it?" Fred asked suddenly.

"Miss what?"

"School."

"Why would I?"

"You liked studying. More than I did, anyway."

George shrugged. "Not enough to miss being at school. The shop's loads more fun."

"D'you ever wish we'd finished?"

"School?" George blinked. "Why would I?"

"Dunno, only it was my idea to leave, and--"

"And it was bloody brilliant. What did it take you, two seconds to wrestle me into agreeing?"

Fred grinned.

George grinned back and shoved him lightly on the shoulder. "Out here's where we belong, mate. Masters of our own destinies, not still having to ask permission to wander about when and where we want."

Fred chuckled. "Freedom or die?"

"Exactly. Our intellectual brilliance and enterprising spirits cannot be contained within walls not of our own making."

Fred laughed. "Especially when those walls stop us from making gallons of Galleons."

George nodded. It still struck him as completely unreal, the sheer volume of money they raked in. The mere idea of having a Gringott's vault of their own was still heady business, never mind having the ability to fill it. A lifetime of poverty could not be erased by mere months of prosperity.

"No more scrounging. Or wearing Charlie's hand-me-downs."

Fred nodded, absently smoothing down the fine cloth of his cloak. "D'you know what we ought to do?"

"What?"

"We should get more nice things for Mum. She and Dad haven't been out in about a million years. In a few months we could probably pay for a trip abroad for them."

George's eyebrows went up. "Yeah! Dad always wanted to go to that Muggle place, what was it, EuroDinsey or something?"

"We'd have to figure out the exchange rate..." Fred chewed his lip. "You know, being around little kids can really make you appreciate how much they put up with from us. Also makes the thought of ever reproducing scare me silly."

"Scared of ending up with kids like us, are you? Hoping to avoid the curse by making it up to Mum and Dad?"

"There's not Galleons enough in the wizarding world for that, Georgie," laughed Fred. He thought for a moment. "We should get stuff for Ron and Ginny too."

"Speaking of trying to make up for being utter shits during our childhood..."

Fred waved a dismissive hand. "No, come on, that was all just standard big brother fare."

"With a few more explosions."

"And noxious smells, and risk to life and limb," Fred conceded. "But it's not like Bill and Charlie didn't torture the rest of us plenty too. What about the Dungeon? Remember Charlie always said he'd take us all once he was earning? He probably doesn't even remember. We should take Ron and Ginny."

"Ginny could us some new books, too," said George.

"And new school robes for Ron," said Fred. "He's shot up like a bloody weed."

"And they both need new broomsticks," they said at the same time, and laughed.

"And protection spells," said Fred. "Wish we'd thought to bring some of our Anti-Dark protecting charms."

"Where the hell is the git?" George said, checking his watch, then whirled around as the door of the Three Broomsticks slammed open.

"Rosmerta?" they both exclaimed. "What is it?"

"Oh Merlin - boys, the school's just fire-called me." She gulped. "It's your brother, Ron. He's been hurt."

"What?!"

"He's in the hospital wing," she said. "He's all right, but he's been poisoned--"

George's heart seemed to stop. "Poisoned?!" he repeated.

"Who'd want to poison Ron?!" asked Fred.

"The school's trying to reach your parents, but they aren't answering the Floo and your dad can't be located."

"Fred, the map--"

Fred was already scrabbling in his pocket for a piece of parchment kept there for emergencies. "We solemnly swear we're actually being good," they both muttered quickly, and a map of The Burrow appeared on the parchment. Thank you, Marauders, for the brilliant idea.

"He's in the shed," said Fred. "He can't hear anything going on in the house, and Mum's not home."

"We've got to go there."

Rosmerta nodded. "I'm sure Ron will be all right, boys," she said, her voice now taking on a soothing tone, and George took one look at Fred's face and realized his own must look like shit. Ashen was not a good look on them; made it look like their freckles had been daubed on like black paint, and clashed with their hair even worse than their WWW robes did.

"Here, come on, let's get you up to the school." She glanced at their presents. "I'm not sure he'll be able to appreciate those for a while, but you may as well take them along."

ooo000ooo

"Oh for Merlin's sake," groaned George. There went Mr. Riley, two people ahead of him in the dinner queue, suddenly deciding he was a swan, flapping and honking and stretching his skinny neck. And, of course, right on cue, Miss Manners behind him turned into a fish and started flopping on the floor. George blew out his breath and stepped aside as a couple of mediwizards rushed past. Now the entire ward staff would be embroiled in the mess, and the rest of them would have to sit and wait for supper. Which was just about the only thing anybody had to look forward to in this miserable place.

"Back off!" yelled the grey-haired witch behind him.

"There's nobody there, Mrs. Atchinson," said an orderly as he rushed past to the flopping fish and swan.

"There's an aquatic Nargle! It wants my dinner!" yelled Mrs. Atchinson.

"No there isn't," said Luna dully. "Nargles don't even exist. Aquatic or terrestrial."

George gave her a small smile. No idea why Luna tried; not only was it none of their business, but Mrs. Atchinson couldn't be reached.

The lineup dispersed as the patients waited for the staff to re-Transfigurate the fish and get the would-be-swan to stop trying to catch and eat her. George briefly considered going back to his yellow and white room, then looked down at Luna, who had slid her back down the wall and sat on the floor with her knees drawn up, arms clasped around them. He sat down next to her, leaned back against the wall, and watched the gasping fish. Only a lunatic Animagus would have a fish as their animal. He wondered if she'd once had another animal form, and it had changed into a fish when she went round the twist, the way some people's Patronus forms changed if they were under stress. Or maybe she had always been crazy, and the fish shape was just a sign of her insanity.

Or maybe she'd been perfectly sane once, and then gone mental after all her years of intense study to become an Animagus had earned her a thoroughly useless form. Who knew. Who really cared.

He briefly wondered if his own Patronus shape had changed. Not much use wondering; he doubted there was a single happy memory he could manage to call up that would enable him to cast a Patronus in this dismal place. And not that he could've, even if he'd been happy as a lark; they'd taken his wand when they'd admitted him.

He glanced at Luna beside him. She'd stopped watching the festivities and put her head in her arms.

"What's wrong?" he asked her gently.

"I don't want to be here any more," said Luna, her voice very small.

George laughed bitterly. "Don't think many of us do. D'you think I'd be here if I had any choice to leave, in any way possible?"

Luna shrank in on herself, hugging her knees, and something about her forlorn figure made George's heart hurt. Which probably meant they'd got his potions wrong, again.

"And how are we doing today, Miss Lovegood, Mr. Weasley?" he started as a bright-eyed young student mediwitch bounced to a stop before them.

"I am feeling like shit," he said curtly. "Think Luna's feeling the same, and I don't give a flying fuck how you're feeling."

The mediwitch's smile dimmed slighly, but remained in place. "You're probably just hungry, dear. Don't worry, we'll get you your dinner soon enough." She flitted down the hallway, where the fish had now been transformed into a reverse mermaid. George watched the skinny legs thrashing and the fish head gulping and absently wished he had enough magic to do something like that. Or do anything on purpose, really.

Luna stirred beside him. "Mrs. Longbottom, it's all right, I have enough," she said, gently pushing away Neville's mum's hand as she held out a cork. Mrs. Longbottom held the cork out again, and Luna sighed and took it. Neville's mum looked at George and reached for his missing ear.

He jerked his head back. "Piss off," he said sharply, and Mrs. Longbottom scooted back in alarm.

"Mum?"

Oh, wonderful.

"Mum, there you are - oh." Neville Longbottom stopped short at the sight of George and Luna with his mum, and it was almost amusing how his throat bobbed as he very obviously tried to figure out how to greet the two of them. "Hello George; Luna. Erm, how are you?"

"All right, Neville, how are you?" said Luna.

Neville's mum turned to him and held out her hand, trembling a bit as she pointed to her ear.

Neville gulped and looked at George. He squared his shoulders. "George, please don't upset my mum," he said.

George blew out his breath and got up, leaving Neville and his mum and Luna, and headed back to his infernally cheery room, stepping around Lockhart and his little choir and jerking his arm away from a choir member's insistent invitation to join them. Thank Merlin they were practicing far enough away from his room that even though he wasn't allowed to close the door their cacophony wouldn't be too audible. The man was an even worse singer than he was an anti-Dark Magic practitioner, if that was possible.

He lay down on his bed with the marigold patchwork bedspread and stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about how much he hated this place.

Because God, he hated this place. Hated his family for bringing him here. Hated them and the staff for their misguided attempts to "save" him. And he hadn't figured out which he hated more: the restraints and perpetual family suicide watch that had kept him from hurting himself for the first few days, or the spell they'd finally perfected that made him unable to do so.

"You're doing better now," the Healer had said. "The safety spell on you is solid enough, and your mood has shown some improvement. It's safe for you to be allowed out of your room on your own. And if you behave yourself and work with us, you can earn more privileges. Maybe even being allowed off the ward, with an escort of course."

She'd even looked pleased with herself. Like he should feel grateful. Grateful that he couldn't kill himself, couldn't go anywhere without permission, couldn't escape, and there was nowhere to go even if he did.

He hated this place. The staff might be awfully proud of how they'd met the sudden demand for mental maladies space and expanded the original ward into a bright, clean, homey place where every patient had their own room, but he hated it. Hated the multicoloured hallway, the relentlessly sunny yellow and white bedroom that was like living inside a bloody fried egg, the mediwizards and witches whose joy it was to Be There To Help. Hated the potions forced down his throat. Hated Mum and Dad for their desperation not to lose him like they'd lost Fred, hated Bill for trying to pretend to be so bloody matter-of-fact about the suicide watches, hated Ron for saving his life, hated Percy for the guilt on his face and the tears that ended up in his eyes every single time he saw George. The only person he didn't hate right now was Ginny, who hadn't been to see him at all. Apparently she was angry at him. She was in a lot of pain herself, the Healers had told him. Under pressure at school. She would come when she was feeling steadier, they said.

Not a problem, as far as he was concerned. He had no desire to see anyone, and it had nothing to do with the shame and embarrassment he'd felt the last time he'd been on the ward. He was beyond shame at this point; all he wanted was out. Escape, by any means necessary.

He'd struggled so hard against the invisible bonds, and his damned wonky magic had flared out of control, reacting with the magic of the bonds and making the room spark and smoke and fill with the smell of cinnamon, of all bizarre things. They'd had to Finite and use physical straps and by the time they'd finally wrestled him into them he was exhausted and Percy, who'd walked in for his suicide watch shift in the middle of the fun, looked like he wanted to be violently ill. He'd excused himself and come back a little paler but steadier. Lee and Ron and Dad, in on the next watches, hadn't known what to do, what to say to him. Which was fine, actually, as he was wiped out and sweat-soaked and in pain and hollow and didn't feel like chatting much either.

He rolled over and covered his head with a pillow. "Maybe you can't make it," you said, he thought at Fred-in-his-head. How was I supposed to make it if even you thought I couldn't?

Did you want me to lie to you?

Why couldn't you just shut up, even after snuffing it? Why do you just have to keep talking?

I'm sorry, said Fred. Bloody hell, I'm sorry. I'm tired too, you know. It's not easy living in your miserable head. You'd think I would've been able to stop having to take care of you after I was bloody well dead.

So sorry to be such an inconvenience.

George, fuck, I'm sorry!

Shut up!

He'd been so ready to die, so desperate to end the misery, held back only by the knowledge that he was going to cause his family pain no matter how obvious it was to everybody that he'd simply made a stupid mistake in the lab. It would still hurt them, he knew, and they would probably still ask themselves if he'd been deliberately careless... but then they would move on. He'd held on to that thought like a talisman. Held on to the hope that his passing would give his family as much freedom as it gave him. They wouldn't have to worry about him, wouldn't have to see him as a permanent reminder of Fred's absence, wouldn't be bogged down by his issues, and would be able to deal with their own grief and finally heal. He and Fred would become a - mostly - happy memory, and there would be Fred and George stories to tell the next generation, just like there had been Gideon and Fabian stories told to his, and hopefully they'd all eventually blur out in their minds the fact that Uncle George had gone a little off after Uncle Fred had kicked.

They'd probably even feel relieved, whether they admitted it to themselves or not.

He'd said goodbye to Ron so gladly that night. Made himself sound like it was just another regular night, See you tomorrow, don't forget to lock up. He'd allowed himself a small goodbye, telling Ron something like, "You've gone beyond brotherly duty," and it hadn't felt great to see slight surprise on Ron's face at that. Proof that George had been such a miserable bastard that he didn't even give his kid brother his due, after everything Ron had done for him.

He'd waited a few minutes, and then gone through all his preparations and drunk the misbrewed potion with relief. No more missing Fred, no more talking to him in his head and wishing he was real, no more worried looks from everyone else, no more being afraid of some day ending up locked up here.

And then he'd woken up. To restraints and weeping family members and Healers who forced potions down his throat. He'd struggled and fought, refused visits, refused potions, refused food, and to no effect; he was either restrained or accompanied by family and force-fed anyway. He'd lost all control over his own life, over his own body and magic and mind, and he swung unpredictably from being unable to give a damn to feeling so angry it was as if he was burning up from the inside. Impotent rage and hatred that made his magic flare unpredictably, crackling around him, causing the staff to dose and restrain him again, making Mum cry. Like there was too much in his body, trying to get out.

He could still hear chaos on the ward. The honking had died down, but Lockheart and his merry crew had apparently decided to regale them all with their artistic efforts, and the other patients weren't taking it well. More delays for dinner. Fine, then. He wasn't hungry anyway. Maybe they'd forget about feeding him and let him bloody well die already.

You're putting yourself and everyone else through hell, said Fred quietly.

So are you. Sodding bastard.

At least I managed to die before doing it.

D'you want a medal for that?

That didn't come out right. There was a pause. I'm sorry. I know it's not your fault. You wanted to die too. You had a good plan and you did your best. It just didn't work. Another pause. Maybe nothing will.

Aren't you a beam of sunshine.

What are you going to do now?

Weren't you always the one with ideas?

I'm all out, mate. And he hadn't heard Fred-in-his-head sound this sad since... since the day of his own funeral. I shouldn't even be here to talk to you about this; I'm supposed to be at peace, or at least at rest. And Fred's voice sounded as full of longing as he felt.

What do we do, then?

Stay in bed. Join Lockhart's chorus. I don't know. I don't give a fuck any more.

He clenched his eyes shut, feeling himself start to shake. What with the various potions and charms and treatments and this maddening place, and his own surging magic and turbulent emotions, he lost it so often, broke down so often, that it wasn't anything to be feared any more; only to be endured.

A soft tap on his door startled him, but didn't break the grip of the shaking. "George?" Luna's soft voice called in.

He didn't answer. Luna stepped into his room and sat down on the bed next to him, her small hand on his shoulder.

"Is he there?" Neville's voice seemed to be coming from the hallway.

"Yes," said Luna, stroking his hair.

Footsteps at the door. "Is... is he off his potions?" Neville asked. "D'you think he needs something?"

"He won't ask for anything," said Luna. "He never does."

There was a small silence. "George, I'm going to call the mediwitch and see if she can help you, all right?" asked Neville.

Quick steps to the door, Neville's soft voice calling out, Luna's hand smoothing his cheek, rubbing his back. Another moment and two sets of footsteps approached his door again. He didn't want to move, didn't want to get up, was sick of being buffeted from all sides by pain and fear and anger and hopelessness, like a leaf at the mercy of a violent storm, winds gusting at him in every direction.

"It's all right, you can leave it here," said Neville to the mediwitch. "I'll make sure he takes it."

"All right, Mr. Longbottom."

Luna leaned over him and kissed his cheek. "George. Please take the potion. It'll at least let you rest."

He sighed. It wasn't that he didn't want to. It was that he always either felt too much or not enough, and right now was a not-enough time, and if only everybody would just let him be...

"Come on, mate," said Neville quietly. "Sit up." He gently tugged George's shoulder and George gave up trying to ignore him and propped himself up on one elbow. "D'you want me to give it to you, or can you hold it yourself?" asked Neville.

George took the vial and Neville steadied his trembling hand. "Right, bottoms up," he said, and George drank it down.

"Neville?" Ron's voice came from the doorway. George lay back down and closed his eyes.

"He's all right," said Neville. "Don't think he'll be in much shape to visit though; I think this is going to knock him out. Always does that to my dad."

Ron sighed. "All right. Thanks, Nev. You can go back to your parents, if you'd like." George felt the bed shift as Ron sat down.

"It's all right, Dad's having a bad day and Mum's doing wrapper art," said Neville, and then his voice, and Luna's and Ron's, faded, as George fell into the potion-induced darkness gratefully.

ooo000ooo

"Weasley."

"Yeah?" Ron looked up from the hospital tea room's unappetizing biscuit selection and stared at the last person he had ever thought he'd have to speak to again. "Malfoy?"

Malfoy hesitated, and then held out a parchment to Ron. "Here."

Ron took it, bemused. "What is this?"

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair. "It's... I wasn't sure if you'd been able to contact any Healers outside of here, who might know something about... about your brother."

Ron's heart gave a pang. "What?"

"I know he's in trouble."

"How do you know?"

"Your dad. And I asked my aunt Andromeda. She knows him. She said he... she said a few things, and I thought maybe that this Healer might help."

Ron looked at the parchment. Luam Lethe, it said, and gave a Floo address that wasn't in Britain.

"What's this rubbish?" he asked, and his hand clenched around the parchment in sudden anger. Andromeda? Who the hell did she think she was, blurting out their family's dirty laundry to--

"Don't be angry at my aunt," said Malfoy. "She was only trying to help. She's worried about him."

"Why would you care?" said Harry, approaching to stand at Ron's side and crossing his arms.

Malfoy shrugged. "I'm not sure, to be honest."

Ron glared at him. "I think I can figure it out. This is still about my dad speaking for yours, isn't it?"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "No, Weasley, it's not about that. I did it because my aunt was worried about him. I just Flooed Healer Lethe about what I knew about your brother's condition. I haven't paid her, and I certainly don't intend to help you pay her."

"We don't need your bloody Healer," snapped Ron, and shoved the parchment back at Malfoy.

"We can take care of George ourselves," Harry said firmly.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Right, then. Good luck with that." He turned to go.

Ron reached out and grabbed him. "You bastard," he hissed, "you just want to rub our faces in--"

"Don't be a paranoid idiot," sneered Malfoy, jerking his arm away. "I don't know why I did it, except my aunt was upset about him. Obviously I shouldn't have bothered."

"You're bloody right you shouldn't have," said Ron.

"And since when are you even in contact with your aunt?" asked Harry.

"Since the war," said Malfoy impatiently. "She likes Weasley's brother - and the rest of you - God knows why. She was worried about him."

"Well you didn't need to stick your nose into our business," said Ron. "We can take care of him on our own."

"That's why he tried to off himself, is it?" Malfoy sneered. "Because you all can take such good care of him?"

Ron drew his breath in, furious. "You bloody--"

"Bastard, yeah. Forget I said anything," said Malfoy, and turned to go again, letting the parchment float to the floor.

"Why did you think your Healer would be any better than what we've already got here?" asked Harry.

Malfoy stopped. "She's not my bloody Healer, Potter. I believe I already told you that."

"What's she got that's any better than what's at St. Mungo's?" said Ron.

"Probably nothing. She's from Nigeria, though, and she has done a lot of work with twins."

Ron blinked. "What?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes again. "Twins. Are considered lucky and magical in some parts of West Africa. Consequently there are rather more twins in the general African population than in Europe, and even more in the wizarding population. They know a lot about twin issues, apparently." He shrugged. "I've no idea if what's happened to your brother has anything to do with being a twin, but he didn't particularly seem the type to try to commit suicide. So maybe it does."

"Maybe," said Ron grudgingly. "You can keep her though. We don't need her."

"You'll just turn her away, without even letting her see him?"

"We won't take anything that comes from you," said Ron.

Malfoy stared at him for a long moment. "I see. Well, that's very noble of you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're too proud to accept my help? Even if the only help I give you is a referral?"

"As if you'd accept our help!"

Malfoy gaped at him in disbelief. "Are you really as thick as you look? I went to see your father to see if he could help mine! And you know exactly what my dad thinks of yours! I would've accepted his help in a second, if he'd offered it!"

"Would your dad?" asked Harry.

"Who cares?!" Malfoy shook his head. "I went to your father for help," he told Ron. "I swallowed my pride for my father's sake. It's quite heartwarming to see that your principles are stronger than your love for your brother."

"That's not what--"

"I suppose he'd be grateful, too, if he found out that you declined help for him because it was suggested by a Malfoy. He's probably having a grand time on the Barmy Ward."

Ron glared at him. "I don't even believe she's a real Healer, Malfoy."

"What?"

"She's probably going to suggest some kind of poison, make him even worse than he is."

"Oh, of course," said Malfoy. "With my entire family facing prison time, this seems like the perfect opportunity to take revenge on you for... what, exactly? Do you honestly think I've got nothing better to do?"

"Maybe revenge for my dad not speaking up for you."

"Right. Yeah. That makes a lot of sense. And nobody would ever figure it out. I wouldn't be putting myself in danger of getting thrown into prison for the rest of my life." Malfoy shook his head. "Bloody lot of idiots, all of you. I only hope your brother's as thick and stubborn as you are. That way if you reject my help and he ends up topping himself, at least I'll know that's what he deserves." He turned and strode away.

Ron clenched his fists to keep from grabbing his wand and reminded himself that, as satisfying as it would be to hex Malfoy into oblivion right now, doing so would almost certainly scrap any chance of ever being accepted back into the Auror program.

He had to do something, though. He took out his wand and pointed it at the parchment on the floor.

"Ron!" Harry grabbed his hand. "Wait. Don't destroy it yet."

"Why the fuck not?"

Harry turned to look at the door swinging shut on Draco Malfoy. "Look, mate, I can't believe I'm saying this, but...what if this Healer could help George? What if you missed the opportunity to make George well again, just because you didn't trust Malfoy?"

"Malfoy, actually helping anyone?" Ron scoffed. "Maybe you need to be locked up on the Thickey Ward yourself."

"Maybe. But maybe you should talk this over with your family anyway." He paused. "And with George."

George. Ron closed his eyes, a wave of sorrow washing over him at the thought of his brother, depressed and angry and hopeless and dying. George, his body limp, his head falling back as Ron pinched his nostrils closed to breathe for him. He stared down the corridor where Malfoy had disappeared, and then at the parchment on the floor.