A/N: Hello, everyone! I have returned from Never Land (aka Land of "What-the-hell-ever-happened-to-this-author?"), and I'm back with some more angsty Weasley Twin stories! This one's called 'A Promise Not Forgotten'. This is a Three-Shot I've been working on for a while. I got the first two parts done a while back, but could never complete the third part. Until today, that is, when I found the incomplete story and decided to finish it. So I hope you like it! I haven't written a story about Charlie before, so I hope I did ok :)

Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of Harry Potter.

Part One: The Boggart in the Chest

All George had been doing was cleaning the scullery. Why the tiny, dusty, crowded room even needed cleaning was well beyond George. The only time the Weasley's had even used it was when laundry was to be done, or brooms and pots and pans could not fit in the kitchen and had to be stored here. It was a room the children hardly ever went in. But, according to Molly, spring-cleaning was here, and this room needed to be cleaned eventually. And George was so lucky as to be the one to clean it, while his twin got to play Quidditch outside with his brothers, as everyone should do over Easter Break. George heaved a sigh. Thirteen-year-olds should not have to be put through this kind of thing over the break from a very difficult second year of Hogwarts. He was positive exposure to this much dust at such a young age couldn't be good for you.

George gathered a broom, a dustpan, an old rag, and a bucket of water, and reluctantly got to work, taking frequent breaks and letting himself get easily distracted. It was times like these that he wished he could use magic outside of school.

About twenty minutes in, (who knew such a small room would have so many things to clean?), George had moved enough boxes and brooms and other tall objects out of the way to reveal something hidden behind them. It was a very old-looking chest; rusty and moldy. George supposed he should clean it off, then put it away on a shelf or something. But his trouble-making instinct got the best of him, and suddenly he had a strong desire to know what was in this old chest.

So he brushed some of the dust off of it, coughing as he did so, and then took a look at the front of the chest. There was a small lock, but it was currently unhinged. However, the lid and the rim of the chest were both metal, and completely covered in orange rust.

George adjusted himself so he could see the chest better in the dim light, and then proceeded to try to open it. He soon found himself grunting and panting in the effort to pry the lid open. Finally, he could feel the rust chipping away, releasing, allowing the redhead to open the chest.

He would come to wish he had never opened it.

For a second, the chest merely lay open, its contents too dark to view, its lid standing stiffly on its rim. All was silent.

Then it fell over, and the dead body of Fred came tumbling out of it.

George's world imploded. He felt like the floor had slipped from underneath him, and he was falling into pure nothingness. He felt as though a cold hand had just grabbed hold of his stomach and wrenched it right out of his body. He felt cold, hot, his head, his head hurt, it hurt, his heart twisted, his legs shook, he felt sick, empty, he lost all control, all of it was gone, gone…

And the worst part was that he couldn't look away. He couldn't look away from his twin's mangled body. From his limbs, all twisted at odd angles. From his chest, bleeding non-stop, dripping the scarlet liquid onto the dusty floor, staining it. From his face, pale as death, blood seeping from his open mouth, out of his nose, trickling down the side of his freckled face. From his eyes. Unseeing. Blank.

Lifeless.

George didn't even think about how old and rusty that chest had been, and that he had seen his twin about a half hour earlier. He didn't think about the fact that the chest was so small, much too small to fit Fred inside of it. He didn't think about any of that. All he knew was Fred. His twin.

Dead.

He wasn't aware that he had fallen back onto the floor, staring horrified at the figure on the ground in front of him. He wasn't aware that he had let out a horrified scream, a blood-curdling scream, a tragic, sobbing, desperate scream.

He didn't know what he would have done if Charlie hadn't found him.

While everyone else was outside, either cleaning or goofing off, Charlie had come inside to get a drink of water. He had just gotten a glass out of a cabinet, and was ready to use 'Aguamenti' to fill it up, when he heard a terrifying, awful scream. His heart skipped a beat. The glass crashed to the floor. Then the seventeen year-old felt his legs moving, running, bringing him to the source of the scream. The scullery.

George had pushed himself against the opposite wall, as far away from the body a possible, sobbing and yelling and shaking all over. He no longer knew anything. Nothing but the body of his brother. His best friend. His twin. Fred.

Then the door flew open, harsh light streaming in and sending dust flying everywhere. Charlie stood in the doorframe, looking thoroughly panicked, panting, his wand out. He saw George, cowering against the wall, eyes wide and terrified, still screaming. Then he saw Fred, bleeding to death on the floor, his mouth hanging open, his eyes not seeing. For a second, his world seemed to end, too. His head swarmed. He nearly lost his footing. But then his senses came to him. He had just seen Fred outside, not even two minutes ago.

Charlie saw it for what it really was.

"Riddikulus!"

The boggart immediately transformed, replacing the body with many small, wind-up toy mice, squeaking and frantically scurrying about. With one fluent motion, Charlie shoved the shape-shifter back into the chest that lay open beside it, shutting it tight and locking it with his wand. Then he just knelt there, panting, forcing the terrible image of his lifeless brother out of his head. All was silent.

George whimpered.

In a second, Charlie was there, kneeling down next to him, his muscled arms wrapped protectively around his brother. He said, in the most comforting voice he could manage, "It's ok, George. It wasn't really him. It wasn't real. I promise. It's ok." He hated how unsteady his voice was, how shaken he sounded.

"He… he was d-dead! Dead!" Pure hysteria crept its way into George' voice, as he choked on another sob.

Charlie hugged tighter. "It wasn't real, George. It's called a boggart. You'll learn about 'em third year. Live in dark, crammed places. Turn into someone's worst fear. That wasn't real, George. It was just a fear. Nothing more. I promise."

Charlie allowed George a few minutes to calm down. His body was still trembling, and his breaths were short and hitched. He cried into Charlie's shirt for a while.

Charlie hadn't seen George cry since he was an infant.

Finally, George started to breath at a normal rate, his sobs reduced to occasional hiccups. Then he ever so slightly scooted away from Charlie, and the ginger got the hint to let go. He slowly lowered his thick arms, but remained sitting next to George on the dusty wooden floor. George was still staring at the spot where the boggart had been. There was no blood on the floor. There were no signs of anything out of the ordinary. Yet George's hazel eyes never left the spot.

Then, the thirteen year-old finally broke the silence. "I-it wasn't real?" His voice was shaky and uneven, breaking halfway through.

Charlie shook his head sadly. "No, it wasn't. I promise, George. Fred's ok. He's outside right now."

"It was a… a fear?"

Once again, Charlie nodded. "Boggarts are creatures that assume the form of the present person's worst fear, whatever it may be."

His eyes never wavered from the spot. "Worst… fear?"

For the third time, Charlie nodded, even though George couldn't see him. "If you don't believe me, we can go outside right now to see him-"

"No!" George suddenly whipped his head around to face Charlie, his voice high with panic. Charlie jumped. "Don't tell Fred, please! Don't tell him, or mum, or-or anyone!"

It saddened Charlie to see his little brother, the trouble-maker, the one who was always laughing, so terrified.

There was another silence. Then, Charlie seemed to know exactly what to say. "You know, the only time I've encountered a boggart was in Defense Against the Dark Arts Class a while back. Do you want to what my boggart takes the form of?"

George sniffled loudly, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jumper. "What?"

"Me. Behind bars. While my family suffers. And I can't break free."

George stopped stirring then, and his eyes looked distant and thoughtful. He cracked a weak smile. "I would have thought it'd be some out-of-control dragon or something."

Charlie forced a laugh. "I wasn't too afraid of that until last summer," he said, glancing down at the black, shiny burn mark on his arm. "But that's not the point. The point is, I hate the feeling of not being able to do something when my family's in need. I hate it. That's why I'm always going to be here for you guys. I'll always break free of that cage." Charlie looked down into the freckled face of George. "I'm always going to be here for you, alright? I promise."

Charlie had never considered himself very good with words. Bill was always the smooth talker, Percy was always the smart one, and Fred and George were the funny ones. Charlie, well, he didn't really know what he was. He was just Charlie. So he was pretty proud of himself for giving this little speech without even stopping to think. Like it had been planning itself out in the back of his head for a while now, and it had finally taken its chance to come forward.

George finally seemed to calm down. His eyelids drooped, like he was suddenly exhausted. Then he nodded, very slowly.

Charlie stood up, helping George up, too. "I'll finish up in here. You can go upstairs and rest up a bit. I'll tell Mum all the dust was getting to your head."

George, eyes blood-shot and shoulders limp, turned out of the room to leave. Right before he reached the door, though, he turned back to Charlie, who had already enchanted the broom to sweep the floor. "Charlie?"

"Yeah?" The older boy turned.

"Thanks."

Charlie cracked his famous ear-to-ear grin. "Any time."

A/N: Ta da! Next part happens a bit later, during a scene we're all very familiar with.

So, what did you think? Did I do ok? Better than ok? Worse than ok? Please let me know! I love reviews!

Thanks for reading!

~blue-eyed-cow