Paying Your Dues

"T'riffic."

Fred turned over an old packing case that had somehow escaped the destruction and sat heavily on the rough wood. The sun pouring in through the now empty window frames allowed him to see the damage clearly and warmed his knees as if reassuring him that everything would be all right.

George was standing immobilised in the centre of the room staring at the spot where the cauldron had lately been. His shoes were covered in ash, as was much of the rest of him. The bleached stench of magic gone wrong filled his nostrils. He fought the impulse to sneeze, which would just lead to another rain of soot.

They were alone in the devastation. The Ministry men had moved on. They'd also lifted the anti-disapparation spell before they'd left, which George thought was thoughtful of them. He could now safely disparate to hell whenever he felt like it. Oh, no, wait... he was already in it.

"Absolutely fanbloodytastic," muttered Fred.

Well, George reasoned, at least he wasn't in purgatory on his own.

"Unbelievable. Un-fuc..."

"Yes. Thank you. I got the gist."

Fred trailed his hand through some dark grey soot on his thigh. He was drawing diagrams of their next project. George recognized the designs.

Their reverie was broken by a loud popping sound in the corner and yet another shower of grey flotsam.

"I have the ingredients." Snibbets blinked owlishly at what was left of the room. "Shall I take them back again or do you wish me to clean up?"

George straightened. "Yeah, I think we should clean up, Snibbs."

"My name is Snibbets, sir."

"Oh. Right. Snibbets." George shook his head, regretting it instantly when his eyes became coated with a thin film of dust. He tried rubbing the dust out with the heels of his hands, but somehow it just made them feel grittier. "Let's get started on cleaning up, then... then..."

"Then we go home?" Fred suggested gently.

"Yeah. I s'pose we do, brother."

"Don't have anywhere else to be, do you?"

"No. No I don't."

George felt like he'd suddenly swallowed a lead brick. He was being suffocated, he was sure of it. His head was full of little men with hammers, and they were trying to construct a shrine to his lost laboratory. It was the only explanation for the pounding headache he now had. All that work, wasted. All over a few tax returns no one was ever likely to read, scrolls that no one would ever probably see.

Scrolls no one would see.

Scrolls. Scrolls that no one ever looked at. Or checked either, he was willing to bet.

The little men with hammers paused in their work, took another look at their blueprints, and headed off to another site in his head to start work on something much, much better.

Fred cocked his head to one side. "Yeah?"

"Fred, when have we ever done anything anyone told us to?"

"Never, George. That's when."

"And are we about to start now?"

Fred's grin was slow to start, but wicked to behold.

"No. It doesn't sound like we are, George."

George turned to Snibbets and started belting out orders. They'd show the Ministry. If the IRD was expecting the Weasley twins to roll over and play dead, then it had better think again.

"Right, Snibbets, forget the cleaning. This is what we need..."