George brushed snow from the ledge beneath the window of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, more slowly than he really needed to, pondering the display behind the glass with a slight frown. The display had always looked better when Wade Widdershins was in charge.

A crack behind him alerted him to the arrival of his brother.

"Good lord." Ron shivered and stamped his feet as the Scottish air nipped at him. "Why are you skulking around outside? It's freezing."

"I don't like this window display. What d'you reckon?"

"Reckon you've got control issues and we're here to do the books, not windows. Come on, let's get inside. I'm meeting Neville after this."

It was Thursday, minutes to closing time, and the shop was empty but for its employees. Cillian, a young clerk who was currently occupied with stocking the shelves, looked up in surprise.

"Good evening, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Weasley."

"Mr. Weasley is my father," both redheads responded in unison, with more than a hint of exasperation. Cillian, who was only nineteen, had some sort of issue using their given names.

Ron and George exchanged a look as they said it. "Hex," joked Ron.

A second clerk, Nathan, greeted them as well, asking earnestly, "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Just checking the books," answered George, pulling off his gloves and breathing on his fingers to warm them before summoning two thick ledgers from the back office. He was fairly certain he had already told this to Dante, the new manager for the Hogsmeade location. He missed Wade Widdershins. "Ron will sort out the tills since we're here."

Nathan moved aside obligingly to grant Ron access to the first of the tills to close them out for the day. Ron began counting out the cash inside as George opened a ledger and perused the inventory records, the tip of his wand guiding his eyes down the lines of script.

"Gonna be so weird when the kids finally start here, isn't it?" remarked Ron conversationally, jerking his head in the direction of Hogwarts castle.

"Yeah," George agreed. Especially in the years before they'd be allowed to visit the village. How strange, the prospect of being so close at times but still not seeing them. Fred was due to start next fall. "We'll have to sneak in on Quidditch weekends."

"Freddie going to play, then?"

"No, I didn't tell you? He's got his heart set on doing the announcements."

Ron grinned as he stacked Sickles. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah. Lee's tickled."

"I'll bet."

"It's all the Muggle football he watches at your house. You should hear him, running around, practicing: Gooooooaaaaallllll!"

Ron laughed, now separating out stray Knuts. "So that Beater's bat you got him for Christmas…?"

"Roxy mainly uses it now. Generally for bashing him about the head."

"Well, good for her."

They lapsed into companionable silence for a few moments before Ron swore under his breath and started counting out Galleons all over again, having clearly lost count.

"Two comes after one," offered George helpfully, "and then, usually, three."

"Nice for you my hands are occupied right now. It's this bloody music. Who picked this?"

It was, in fact, horrendous music being piped throughout the shop. Some band called Sickleback. George couldn't recall having listened to anything so grating as a kid.

"Sales are still down," he muttered a short time later, partially to Ron, partially to himself as he pored over the shop records. To be fair, the Hogsmeade location never had done as well as their Diagon Alley flagship. One day per month of Hogwarts students was simply not enough to counterbalance the perennial sleepiness of the little village.

"It is just after the holidays." Ron was now perusing the few sales receipts for that day.

"It's February. Love potion sales should be through the roof." Kids didn't seem to be interested in the same things these days.

"We should probably - "

But George never did hear what Ron thought they should probably do, because at that moment there came a pronounced banging and rattling sound from the basement.

The two glanced at each other, Ron with one eyebrow arched.

"What's that?" asked Ron, looking to Cillian and Nathan, who had resumed stocking the merchandise. The clerks exchanged an uncomfortable look, their eyes and noses just visible over the top of a shelf.

"Erm…" Nathan had, somehow, been selected the spokesperson for the two and didn't look at all happy about it. "We think...we think it's a boggart. Sir."

"You think it's a boggart? Has nobody bothered to check? How long has it been there?"

The boys seemed to be sheepishly avoiding either of their bosses' eyes.

"Seriously?" George joined in. "Nobody's tried? Even Dante? Nothing?"

Nathan, the elder of the two, though not by much, looked appropriately abashed. His silence was punctuated by another boisterous round of clanging below.

"Should ask Neville what they're teaching those kids," muttered George, so low only Ron's ears could hear him. He set aside the accounting book and began to roll up his sleeves.

"You got it? Or I can go," Ron offered.

"Nah, I've got it. Won't be a minute." George muttered in condemnation of "this generation" as he began to head for the stairs to the basement.

"You know, you're sounding more and more like Percy every day."

"Get stuffed."

The last thing he heard before reaching the door at the bottom of the stairs was Ron slamming the till shut, saying, "Alright, lads, this till is short again, and I am about to make your lives very difficult…"

When was the last time he'd dealt with a boggart? Not since he was still a kid, surely. Would it still be a banshee?

Or Voldie, maybe? That would be easy enough. Stupid face like a pancake. George had barely thought of him in years, anyway.

Another thought popped into George's mind, but he pushed it away just as quickly. It was absurd. George had made his peace with that, years ago, and sworn to himself there would be no more wallowing.

He dismissed the thought from his mind with ease and mused with a grin that perhaps it would just be pregnant Angie. And that, he could certainly handle.

Every year they said they would finally sort out this basement, and every year they never did. Years' worth of overstock sat in boxes and crates, past seasons stacked upon one another, a visual accounting of which products had sold very well and which had been not so popular. George noticed with amusement that someone had sneaked a Muggle table football game down here, to play on their breaks, no doubt. George gave one of the knobs a spin, the gears in his own head turning, pondering how to apply this concept to Quidditch.

In the far corner, a cabinet shook menacingly. That cabinet, if he recalled correctly, was full of old Zonko's products, left over from when this space had been inhabited by the former novelty giant. He hadn't seen the point in throwing them out, thinking perhaps someday he might even be able to improve upon the outdated designs.

Shaking off a chill that he told himself was a residual effect of the weather, George pointed his wand at the cabinet. "Alohomora."

The doors swung open. Inside, a figure reclined jauntily atop a jumble of Zonko's products, his fingers laced behind his head, one arm obscuring his face from George's view, but George spied a bit of red hair in the feeble light of the basement. The apparition's trainer-clad feet were propped up against one wall of the cabinet in an easy manner, and he whistled a melancholy tune that George recognized but could not place.

George took a step forward, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows, staring in wonder and confusion. He did not understand.

The whistling stopped suddenly and the man in the cabinet spoke.

"Hiya, Georgie," he said, his voice mischievous and suspiciously bright, and George's heart plummeted upon hearing the voice, even before the man revealed his face. "How's tricks?"

He should have acted then, but he was still struggling to understand. This was not scary, not exactly. He stood, transfixed, wary, as Fred stepped down from the cabinet and ambled towards him. Fred was not so young as twenty here, but certainly not thirty-five, either. George remained mute, drinking in the sight even as he distrusted it. There was something seraphic about Fred, and something heady about the way he appeared to be studying George's face the same as George was studying his.

People always thought when you were a twin it was just like looking in a mirror, but that was not the case at all. George looked in a mirror every day of his life, but he had not seen Fred's face looking at him for nearly fifteen years. Fred's nose was just so, and George's was not. Fred had a mole tucked under his jaw on the left side, and his face was leaner.

"Cat got your tongue?" Fred's cheeks stretched in a devilish grin. "Here, I'll help you. Hi, Freddie!" he continued in exaggerated tones. "So good to see you! How the hell are you?"

Then Fred raised one nearly invisible eyebrow and stroked his chin with his thumb as if deep in thought. "Hmm, let's see… Well, for one, I'm dead." This sentence was punctuated by a sardonic smile, and his voice had taken on a sinister hue, even while he continued to affect a cheerful demeanor.

George swallowed, still speechless, his chest beginning to constrict and his stomach to churn. He could feel himself starting to sweat. His wand hung uselessly at his side.

"So there's that," Fred continued. "It's total shit, by the way, if you'd like to know. Since you're being such a terrible conversationalist right now. Is this because you're old? I would have been such a better old guy." He seemed to glow with self-assurance.

George was hardly old, though his hair wasn't as thick as it used to be and he now entertained more tedious worries than he had in his youth.

Hands in his pockets, Fred rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Nice digs you got," he taunted. "You and Ron? You guys are doing great. With this place we built."

Trying to formulate a response, George's lips parted, but before anything came to him Fred continued.

"Angelina, eh? Good job, brother. I always had a bit of a thing for her - but then, you knew that, didn't you?"

George shook his head, wide-eyed. No. Yes. He wasn't sure.

"Yeah, you did," said Fred dismissively, foreclosing any further discussion on that subject. "Anyway. Kids, yeah? Cool kids. Well, Little Fred's a bit neurotic, but what can you do?" He paused, and any last trace of a smile was erased from his face. His face darkened even as it maintained an impossibly ethereal sheen. "You know how good you've got it, right Georgie?"

"Yes," George whispered involuntarily, finding his voice. He knew, somewhere in his rational mind, that he shouldn't be drawn into this, but he was spellbound. He tried to tell himself this wasn't real, but part of him wanted it to be, and that part was winning. He did not wish to ever stop looking at Fred, no matter how awful the sight.

"You ever stop to think it should have been you," Fred asked coldly, insidiously, "instead of me?"

"Yes," repeated George, horrified at both the question and his own honesty.

"You weren't even there with me. What's that about?"

Fred's eyes were hateful and otherworldly as he started to advance on his twin, anger now emanating from him. George's mouth had gone dry, and he raised one hand in a pleading gesture for Fred not to continue.

"Where were you?" Fred demanded. "When I was fucking dying, where were you? You have never answered me that."

George didn't know. He could speculate, but he couldn't know. There had been so much going on. He'd spent hours, days, weeks, scouring his memories until he no longer knew which memories were real and which were invented. In the end, he never could say for certain where in that castle he was when it happened. And it had taken weeks, months, years, before he allowed himself to believe that it wasn't his fault.

But it was, of course; he could see that now. It was entirely his fault. Why hadn't he been there?

"Where the fuck were you, George?" Fred was in a rage now. "I died next to fucking Percy! Do you ever think about that? Why the fuck was Percy where you should have been?"

George had been backing up slowly during this tirade, until he bumped into the table football set. His free hand shook as he held it protectively before his face, his wand arm braced against the table as if to hold himself up. "I'm sorry...Fred, I'm sorry…"

"You're sorry?" Fred let out a dark laugh. "That's nice. I've assumed room temperature, but at least you're sorry!"

All the blood seemed to have drained from George's face and collected in his stomach. He fought the urge to vomit. He could take no more. Struggling to breathe steadily, he summoned every ounce of willpower and raised his wand.

"Oh, okay," said Fred scornfully. "I see." With that, he stretched his arms out wide to either side in a caricature of sacrifice. "Here, I'll make it easy for you."

"Ri- riddikulus," tried George, but nothing happened.

"Come on!" heckled Fred.

"Rid...dikulus!" he choked out. But Fred just stood there, cackling.

"Oh my God." Arms still outstretched, Fred threw his head back and laughed so hard his voice cracked, though it was utterly without humor. "You're terrible at this!"

George tried again...and again...but Fred remained, taunting him.

He couldn't do it. Try as he might...

He couldn't make Fred funny.

To his right, the door flew open, Ron appearing behind it. "What the hell is taking - "

He stopped short, looking between George and Fred - whole Fred, not dead Fred. Alive, vibrant, terrible, sublime Fred. Ron's eyes widened in comprehension.

"Shit," he breathed, drawing his wand.

"Ronniekins!" started Fred, but Ron wasted no time stepping into the center of the room, and Boggart Fred dissolved, replaced by an image of Hermione and Harry passionately kissing. George gaped inadvertently, jarred back to his senses out of pure shock upon seeing his brother's boggart.

Ron's face hardened. "Fuck's sake..." he muttered, reddening. Releasing a sharp sigh, he raised his wand higher. "Riddikulus!"

Boggart Hermione's and Boggart Harry's faces swapped with one another to bizarre effect, and Ron ducked his head and snickered, nodding to himself in a bracing sort of way as the boggart imploded with a pop!, leaving the two brothers in discomfited stillness in the cool, damp room.

George stared at the floor, unsure whether or how to address what either of them had just seen. He felt a hand on his shoulder as Ron uttered a terse, "Alright?" George nodded, unable to meet Ron's eyes. Though the task was finished, neither made to leave the room; it almost seemed that they could not.

The silence between them continued, stifling, and George's mind returned repeatedly to Ron's boggart in an effort to forget his own. At last, he fixed his brother with a look of confusion and disbelief, and he spoke:

"Jesus, Ron. Still?"

His question was not mocking, simply incredulous.

Ron drew a slow breath before allowing his blue eyes to meet George's. "You did not see that," he instructed, stony-faced. George held up his hands in a show of acquiescence, and Ron nodded, appeased, before heading for the door.

At the threshold, however, Ron paused and looked back over his shoulder. His brow was furrowed, but his face was wholly inscrutable.

"Fuck, George," he echoed, shaking his head. "Still?"

.

A/N: This is the second oneshot in my "Battle We Still Fight" series (can be found grouped as a series on AO3 and HPFT). Thank you for reading; would love to hear from you!