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He doesn't remember what they were fighting about, but he knows that like usual, George was drinking, and Harry was tired. And like usual, because George was drinking and Harry was tired, the argument turned to yelling, to insults being thrown, to alcohol sloshing and spilling, and then the glass went flying at Harry's head, missing by a few centimeters and shattering against the wall behind him; he felt the splash of the liquid against his back. That last wasn't usual. He'd never gotten violet in Harry's direction, only destroying furniture easily repaired in the morning. Harry shouted in outrage and disbelief, gesticulating wildly to emphasize how fucked up that was.

That's when the blame came, heavy and thick and devastating, tearing into Harry and making sure he knew that at the core of things, no matter what his sober self proclaimed, George fully believed it was Harry's fault, however indirectly, that Fred died.

And it hurts. Harry understands. Harry blames himself every day, even knowing it truly wasn't—isn't—his fault. Not a moment goes by that he doesn't mourn and feel that third part of himself aching, the missing piece of a hollow, broken triad bond.

They'd bonded only a month before Harry had to go on the run. A month of finally feeling whole and complete and wanted.

Maybe if Dumbledore had told him he had to die to win the stupid fucking war, they wouldn't have bonded. They wouldn't have bonded, and then Fred wouldn't have been distracted by the agony of a tattered bond and died himself. George wouldn't have lost his twin; he wouldn't be suffering form the loss of both bonds, even though his and Harry's connection had fused back together.

But not completely. There are fractures, fissures and canyons, gaping and wounded, where Fred should be.

Harry is reminded every day of the loss. The resentment he knows isn't imagined wears down on him. Every time he sees Molly Weasley weep, trying to hide her tears as she struggles to be strong for her family. The guilt on Percy's face for not being able to save his baby brother. The weariness in Arthur's face and slump in his shoulders. He sees the way Ginny can barely hold back a biting remark, tightness around her eyes, a sour tilt to her lips, and sometimes there's more fire to simple statements when she speaks to him.

They never treat him differently. At least, not in a way that is definitive. He's always welcomed with hugs and kisses and kind words like nothing is different by everyone that is not Ginny, who barely conceals her distaste for him. But he sees and feels the pain, and he mourns it, mourns Fred, and not for the first time wishes he had been the one to die for good, at the same time as Voldemort so his duty to the Wizarding World was still fulfilled. The world could move on without Harry Potter. The world is so much dimmer without Fred in it.

And to make it worse, Harry had always felt closer to George. George had been the voice of reason, a gentler touch, the antithesis to the aggression he showed on the Quidditch Pitch or in battle. He'd had leagues more compassion and level-headedness than the ever-passionate Fred. His grief smothered those qualities, and without his twin and bondmate, his personality steadily grew more caustic, sometimes scalding Harry, alienating him from the only good thing he'd ever had since the death of his parents.

Without Fred, Harry no longer belonged. Despite what the Weasley family said, together or individually, there is an icy chasm between him and his found family. He doesn't know how to cross it. Secretly, Harry doesn't think he should try.

So the accusations burned across his skin, and the whiskey and the glass that held it flew, and Harry snapped. His magic lashed out and shattered the bottle, spilling the remaining liquor across the table and floor, and a couple windows exploded outward as well. George stumbled in surprise, and Harry...Harry had enough.

Harry knows. He understands. He agrees that it's all his fault. He believes with all his heart that Fred and George, George and Fred, Forge and Gred, would have been better off without him, alive and well and happy if they'd never realized they were soulmates and had never finalized and consummated their bonds.

But he had sworn never to allow someone to abuse him. Not after his childhood where he couldn't save himself, and no one would do it for him, even after he knew about his magic. He'd been used and manipulated by the Wizarding World, and he'd been neglected, beaten, and starved by blood relatives that should have loved and nurtured him instead. He refused to remain his living soulmate's punching bag.

“I know you lost Fred, George, and I know you miss him,” he'd ranted, frustrated and heart and split open. “I know it's my fault, George. I know you would have been happier with him if I'd just stayed dead! You lost your brother, your best friend, your soulmate. I know you did, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry, and I know it'll never be enough. I'll never be enough! You lost Fred, but I've lost everyone! I lost Fred, and I lost you even though you're right here in front of me, and I've lost the people I call family because I can't help but see how miserable they are without him and how hard they try not to blame me.”

George had snapped back something slurred and hurtful. Harry doesn't remember what. But it was enough for him to grab his Muggle coat and leave the apartment above the joke shop, not even bothering to shove his feet in shoes.

He Disapparated and landed in Grimmauld Place, sobbing and hyperventilating until he looked up and found the room he'd dropped into completely destroyed from his volatile magic. Poor Kreacher had provided him with water and a Calming Draught and quietly began cleaning up while his useless half-blood master sat and stared into the empty glass for an indeterminable amount of time.

Eventually, Harry got up. He apologized to Kreacher and thanked him for cleaning up and for the water. He went to his room, changed his clothes to ones not tainted with the stink of whiskey, and opened the strongly warded trunk shoved under his bed. Digging through it, he pulled out a box that was just as heavily warded as the trunk. Inside were the Deathly Hallows. The three artifacts had refused to stay lost or locked away. Harry had used all three and met Death as a friend, and whether he wanted it or not, he now is the Master of Death. His magic is stronger and rarely actually needs a wand as a conduit of even an incantation or gesture to perform a spell. His holly wand no longer responds to him, only the Elder Wand will.

Harry's fingers tapped the box, and then he closed the lid. He stood and walked back downstairs, carrying the box with him, to tell Kreacher he was leaving and that he wasn't sure when he'd be back. Then he Disapparated again, touching down and just outside the Ministry Building's wards. Magic crackling around him, he entered probably more easily than he should have been able to.

He didn't bother hiding his presence. No one would question him, and no one would likely think to find him here either anyway.

Now he stands in front of the Veil. He doesn't remember the journey through the many corridors and floors to this room in the Department of Mysteries that features in many of his nightmares, looming and grotesque following the trauma of the loss of his godfather. It's cold here, and not just because he still isn't wearing shoes or socks. His eyes track over every crack and crumbling place of rock along the arch of the Veil. The swirling fog seems lazy and ominous, and yet it beckons him.

That ever-present aching in his chest tugs at him, guiding him, wanting him to step forward. Something awaits him within the swirling vortex that had consumed countless victims. He shudders with the cold and the dread and the memory of Sirius falling in and being sucked away.

So he sets down his box and opens it. He hooks the Elder Wand into the holster attached to his forearm. The Resurrection Stone sinks into his flesh as he holds it in his palm with only a residual tingle, and he watches in a weird detached way he hasn't experienced in a while. Fingers tingling from the absorption of one of the Hallows, Harry unfurls the Invisibility Cloak and slings it around his shoulders and over his head. Rather than making him disappear from view—not that anyone is here to see him anyway—the Cloak adheres to his skin and sinks in, but not as a deeply as the Stone had. Only the upper layer of skin, so that he can still see the shimmer of the ethereal material when he flexes and turns his limps in the eerie light.

Following his gut instincts and the whispered advice spoken directly into his mind from the sentient Elder Wand, Harry steps close to the ominous arch. He conjures a rope which would lengthen and shorten in accordance to his movements. He loops it a few times around his waist and fastens it with a spell; then he attaches the opposite end to the outer edge of the arch with a particularly powerful Sticking Charm. The room is quiet. The air is still. It's like the gateway itself is waiting to see what his next move will be.

Harry takes a breath. Eyes closed, he steps forward and passes through the Veil. The fog reaches out and tugs him inside, welcoming him within its depths.

The first thing he notices is there a distinct sensation of lacking. While it isn't necessarily cold, there is no heat. The noises here are muffles, as if everything is cushioned, or like the volume on a TV has been turned down. When he opens his eyes, everything is some shade of gray and surrounded in this odd, magically-charged fog. It swirls and undulates independently, like a writhing but lazy creature, and as Harry pads barefoot through it, the mist parts ahead of and closes in behind him.

Without a clear idea of where he is meant to go, Harry keeps walking with slow, measured steps. He hears soft groans and wails, like those in mourning, and a small part of him quivers with empathy, although he knows enough not to go and join them.

No, he is here for a more specific reason and cannot allow himself to be distracted by side quests.

As such, he makes sure to stay on the path the Elder Wand whispers directions for. He feels almost in a trance, though it is likely due to the odd dreamy condition of the current environment, for he feels fully aware of his body and mental faculties. If not for the Hallows' guidance and protection, he has no doubt that he would get lost in this otherworldly realm, maybe even succumb to the siren's call of the weeping and desolate souls on his periphery.

This realm serves as a kind of Limbo for lost and broken souls, and Purgatory for the dead who have not crossed over to Hell—or whatever serves for Hell in the Wizarding World—for their crimes. He thinks he hears the unhinged cackle of Bellatrix Lestrange. He ignores it.

He doesn't know how long he walks. If he stops and looks behind him, the rope around his waist appears to extend back miles and miles through the silver, swirling mist. Whenever he does stop, curious or tired, the Elder Wand buzzes against his arm, urging him onward. He's never motionless for long.

People become visible through the mist. Lumbering along like Muggle media zombies, they don't take notice him, and he knows it is at least in part due to the magic of his Invisibility Cloak. He recognizes some of them from old newspapers and from History classes. Hermione would like know their names and backgrounds. He doesn't dwell on them, nor does he attempt to engage or communicate with them. His feet continue onwards, following their destined path, silent and steady across the ground. The discomfort of his bare flesh on uneven and unfamiliar terrain barely registers, his psyche locked in concentration of his mission.

He doesn't know what he feels as he pads along. He thinks maybe he doesn't actually feel anything. Numb, a little apathetic, but that's not entirely true either. He's determined, and curious, and cautious, but any deeper emotions are beyond him right now. An odd fog has settled over his mind, mimicking the one he paces through, coating him in a placid fugue. If he is to look inward, centered behind his sternum, where his bonds nestle, the one leading to George is quiet, almost immobile, a blockage set up to prevent George from receiving feedback; he wonders if the Elder Wand did it to protect George from the affects of the Veil, which would surely harm a living person that hasn't experienced the oddities and traumas Harry has.

He hopes it doesn't hurt George. He wonders if George would even notice, so focused on his loss of his twin. Would he even notice that Harry is missing?

Harry doesn't think he wants to know.

He hears a shriek that reminds him of Peter Pettigrew. It's barely a blip in his memory. Harry keeps walking.

His journey seems endless, although he never tires. Harry thinks that the soles of his feet should be sore and raw by now, but there is no particular sensation aside from the normal pressure of standing and walking. The terrain feels like unsmoothed asphalt. It's not what he expected. Then again, Harry had never actually expected to walk through the Veil enough to have expectations on what sort of flooring it would have. Aside from the occasional pause to just stand and breathe, he doesn't rest, he doesn't sleep, he just carries on with his search without a sense of time or urgency. He will end up where he needs to be eventually.

Something up ahead makes Harry pause. His body goes still, and the silence reigns. Then he catches it. A flash of fiery red. It's the first snatch of color he's seen since he entered this odd, muted place. His breath hitches, a lump in his throat. He starts forward again, this time at a light job, the rope stretching out behind him. The closer he gets, the harder his heart thumps in his chest, joy and wonder fighting through that strange numb haze.

Fred.

He lies on his side on the ground, curled up as if napping on the couch at home. Harry speeds up, just barely refraining from running fully. He goes to his knees by his long-lost, deceased bondmate, soulmate.

“Freddy,” Harry whispers, hands fluttering above the broad-shouldered, lanky form curled in on itself, almost too afraid to touch. Tears burn in his eyes that he refuses to let fall, throat tight and painful with emotion. A shudder ripples through his body, and then he finally rests his hands on Fred's back.

There is no immediate response. Slowly, as if rousing from a deep sleep, Fred stirs. He makes a sleepy noise that causes Harry's chest twinge. The redhead's pretty chocolate eyes open, hazy and uncomprehending but no less beautiful to Harry, who hadn't seen them in so long, months before his own death, even. A dreamy smile crosses his face, joy lines creasing minutely, and Harry can't help leaning over to kiss the scar through is right eyebrow from a Quidditch accident.

“Harry,” Fred murmurs, clearly not with it yet, though he presses his head into the touch of Harry's lips. “Missed you, sunshine.”

A choked sob wrenches its way out of his throat, and he muffles it in Fred's wild red locks, arms holding him tightly. “I missed you, too, Freddy,” he croaks, fingers flexing in the dirty robes the older wizard died in. “Come on, Fred. Let's go home, okay? George misses you something fierce. He's waiting for you.”

“All right, Harry.” Fred sluggishly sits all the way up. He's like the other zombies around them, but he responds when Harry stands to help him up and stand unsteadily on his long legs.

Harry uses the Elder Wand to split off the rope around his torso a meter down so he could wrap and secure it around Fred's trim waist. He doesn't want to take any chances that Fred will somehow lose his way or get separated from Harry. The Veil is uncharted territory in every sense of the word, and Harry's only mission right now is to get Fred back to George in the land of the living.

Their journey back the way Harry came seems to take less time than it took to get there. Harry thinks that part of it is just how the majority of his brain is focused on Fred: the feel of him, the smell of him, how he walked in a sleepy shuffle that never changes no matter how long they walk, the warmth of him pressed to Harry's side. Merlin, how he missed this man.

But no he's found him, using his gifts as the Master of Death, and all he has to do now is send him out of the Veil to George's waiting arms.

It's the least he can do after all the damage he's caused.

The Elder Wand remains silent but aware against his wrist. The other wandering souls pay them no mind, and either the Cloak has lent its magic to its Master's soulmate or the dead simply don't care about Fred enough to take notice. The rope shortens steadily as they walk back the way Harry had come. His fingers tingle and pulse, and he can feel magic roiling under his flesh that he thinks may be the Resurrection Stone. As they walk, he can see Fred's skin gaining color, no longer a pasty, chalky gray, freckles and youth glowing from his flesh. The Stone is restoring him gradually, he thinks, and he feels the drain of his magic slowly but surely.

Time seems to move a little faster on the way back through, Harry observes. It's easier to block out the tortured souls of the lost wailing and moaning in the distance, arms wrapped around Fred, offering his own warmth and life essence if that's what it takes to get him back up to snuff. The thought of looking around for Sirius briefly crosses his mind, but he doesn't want to risk Fred's recovery and resurrection.

He's the Master of Death. Surely this won't be the only time he'll be able to access the Afterlife, through the portal of the Veil or other means.

Guiding Fred is a little like when he's helped get George to bed after he's drunk himself to the point of complacency and/or unconsciousness, minus the sour smell of whiskey and the drunken mumblings and rantings of whatever the stockier twin conjures up. He ignores the twinge of hurt and regret at the thought, turning his attention back to leading his lethargic lover through the mists and grays of the Veil. The smaller man savors every point of contact, and sadly it's the most contact with any human being that he's had since the funeral. He nestles his dark head under Fred's chin for a moment and wishes he could smell the spicy musk unique to the older twin, but the muffling of the senses the Veil enacts here in this world prevents it.

Suddenly they're there. The gateway to the Veil looms over them, casting a cold shadow, and Harry trembles as he gazes up at the archway, which doesn't appear as crumbled and deteriorated on this side as it does in the living world. The rope points out of the barrier. It's opaque even as it swirls and roils lazily with fog and ethereal mists and magic, just like the landscape around them. However, Harry thinks he can see movement outside, like the scampering of human bodies. He can't make out who, only the general shape, which only confirms a bipedal creature, not necessarily a human.

“Harry?”

Harry flinches and looks up at Fred. The lanky redhead appears far more awake and lucid than he had when Harry first found him, although that's not saying a whole lot. There's more life to those intelligent eyes. Confusion makes his features softer, like a befuddled puppy.

Harry smiles. He turns Fred to face him with his back to the Veil's swirling portal. Cupping his face with cold, tingling fingers, he lifts up on his tiptoes to plant a soft, tender kiss on his love's lips. “It's okay, Freddy,” he whispers. His blood burns even as his skin goes cold, and the magic vibrating under his flesh begins to rush outward. “It's time to go home, love. George is waiting.”

Slow step after slow step, he herds Fred backwards until he's a hairsbreadth away from the exit. His magic slams out of him, the Resurrection Stone rattling inside his palm, and the flesh of his hand cracked open, smearing blood on Fred's chest. Fred gasps, as if coming up for air after swimming underwater for far too long. Shouting with the pain and a sense of urgency he doesn't understand, Harry shoves with all the strength he can muster, pushing Fred out of the Veil's domain of the deceased and the lost, sending him home to the living and George.

The magic that had been carrying him all this time was suddenly gone. Harry's legs give out beneath him, and he collapses. The rope around his waist gives a tug, as if in response to the length still around Fred's body, but then it goes flat to the ground again.

Blackness encroaches along the edges of his vision. Blood is warm along the coldness of his skin, coating his hand and arm. Heaviness weighs on his back, pressing firmly to the stony ground. Green eyes dim and flutter, and then he finally lets go and passes out.

~*~~*~*~*~~*~

George is panicking. He'd woken from his drunken binge to no sign of Harry, the house in shambles, although he distinctly remembers Harry arriving and the argument that ensued not long after. How devastated Harry had looked as George sank his teeth in and shook his head to ravage every insecurity and awful thing the younger wizard already believed of himself, like a rabid dog going in for the kill. He remember's Harry's tears and how lonely Harry said he was, and he remembers...remembers hurling a glass of whiskey at him.

Merlin, is it any wonder why Harry ran away? After all the Dursleys had done to him, which he'd never fully disclosed to the twins, only ever alluded to it, was it any wonder that Harry left as swiftly as he could after saying his piece? Furthermore, it took him far too long to realize Harry's end of their soulmate body was severely muted, muffled, silenced to almost nonexistent, and the thread leading to that end felt frayed and stressed, stretched to the point where it may break at any moment. George has to fix it.

He already lost Fred. He can't lose Harry, too. Not again.

Molly and Arthur had been appalled when George came hungover and desperate to the Burrow in search of Harry. His mother chewed his only ear off as she berated him while his dad, grim-faced and disappointed, fed him a hangover potion. Ginny had smacked him up the back of his head with a scowl that could easily be scarier than Mum's in a few years with practice. When all of the ass-reaming had concluded, Ron, surprisingly calm and understanding, offered to help him find Harry.

Harry wasn't at Grimmauld Place, and Kreacher seemed even more contemptuous of the Weasley brothers than usual and disinclined to tell them anything about his master. He wasn't at the park in Muggle London he'd taken to lazing around in when feeling morose and not wanting to be hounded by the Wizarding World's media. He wasn't haunting the library with Hermione, who had her own sharp words for him once she was brought abreast with the situation, and he wasn't milling about in the Longbottoms' greenhouse with Neville. George even checked in with Luna to see if they'd gone to feed the Thestral herd. Ron met up with him to report he wasn't at Hogwarts with the restoration teams either, expression tight with worry.

The next day, Molly helped them perform a tracking spell, and he and Ron were surprised to follow the rapidly flying wisp of white light to the Ministry building. Alarm quickly replaced surprise the deeper they went, and then the wisp disappeared in the chamber where the Veil stands waiting. All that remained was dread and the cold whisper of worry.

Judging by Ron's expression, he was just as worried. Why would Harry be here?

They scoured the chamber, but they couldn't find him. They swept through the majority of the Department of Mysteries that they could without alerting any of the employees to their presence, even using magic that spread out in wide arcs in case Harry was under his Invisibility Cloak.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, George saw it.

A rope, gently bobbing and swaying with movement, attached to the outer edge of the Veil's arch and disappearing into the nebulous depths of the unknown dimensions beyond.

Ron stood as close as he dared and tested the rope, confirming that it had been conjured by Harry's magical signature. They both wavered in front of the archway, unsure of what to do. Harry had gone into the Veil. He'd been in there for at least a day and a half, and George only knows this because that's how long he'd been searching for his young love.

That's how long his bond has been quiet.

George can't lose Harry. He'd already lost him once, if only briefly, and he'd lost Fred, too. He couldn't bear it. How could he have let it get this far? He should had held onto Harry with both hands! Clung to him and made sure Harry knew every day how loved and precious he is and always will be.

He paces, frazzled and near blind panic, unsure of what to do now. Ron is quiet, easing as close as he dares to the portal to the netherworld or whatever the hell the freaky thing is. He's studying the rope, watching it sway and move, seemingly disappearing into nothingness.

“It's safe to presume he intends on coming back,” Ron decides, stepping back and appearing to assess the grim archway as a whole, careful not to trip over the small empty box not far from the Veil, one that George recognizes from Harry's possessions.

“But why would he go in in the first place?! Does he even know if he can come back? What happens if he can't?!” George demands, gaze imploringly locked on the swirling vortex of fog and eerie magic even as his voice verges on hysterics.

“Harry's been different since coming back from the dead,” Ron comments quietly, solemnly acknowledging George's flinch at the reminder. “His magic's different, stronger, has an older feel to it, like he aged a decade between dying and waking up again. He knows things that he never used to know or never trained for. I reckon that's all connected, George. I trust Harry to handle himself, even if I don't understand what he's doing or what he is suddenly capable of.”

George hates that Ron is the voice of reason here. He hates that Ron seems to know more about Harry right now than he does despite being soulmates with the “Chosen One.” George runs his hands over his head, dragging through his hair in frustration, even tugging a little to feel the sting on his scalp. He briefly considers conjuring his own rope to stick to the archway and dive in after Harry, but he discards the thought as ludicrous after a minute. He has no idea what he'd be doing, and there is no guarantee he could pass through as easily as Harry without dying anyway.

The brothers sit down a few feet away after an hour of nothing happening. Both had decided without words to stay and wait for Harry to emerge from the portal, or for any other sign or indication of what else they could do. Ron sends a Patronus at some point to alert Hermione of what they had discovered, and an hour after that, she arrives with sandwiches, water, a Muggle first aid kit for some reason, and a book to read while she quietly waits with them, hand held in Ron's. While George isn't particularly hungry, he still eats and drinks half of what he's given, if for no other reason than Hermione is definitely scarier than his mother when she wants to be, though she'll deny it.

The world is in trouble if she, Molly, and Ginny ever team up to accomplish a goal.

George doesn't like sitting and doing nothing. He had always been active, always doing something, always running after his twin. Even when he and Fred were sick, they were getting into something. Sitting and waiting is not his forte. He fights not to fidget and to allow himself to accept comfort form his little brother and the witch mated to him.

The eeriness and the silence doesn't help. It's an uncomfortable feeling, and he swears sometimes he can hear indecipherable whispers coming from the Veil. Sometimes it's like it's trying to lure him closer. A glance at Ron confirms it is just as unnerving for him. Hermione either doesn't notice, buried in her book, or she is far better at hiding her discomfort.

Strange noises suddenly erupt from the Veil, startling the three into standing. It almost sounds like talking, as if they're listening through a wall without using magic to clarify.

George steps forward a little hesitantly, and Ron is only a second behind. Hermione hovers further back, wand in hand and watchful, ready to strike in an instant. He's not sure, but he thinks he can see shadows moving behind the thin barrier of the gateway, and the rope seems to get a little slack. George's heart beats a little faster, the hair on his arms standing on end.

A body is abruptly launched out of the Veil, and George and Ron both shout in surprised, bowled over to the ground. An almost painful snap occurs in his chest, right beside his muted body with Harry, and then warmth spread through him, immediately soothing away the flare of agony as though it had never been there. George gasps, and he automatically clutches at the body sprawled atop him, recognizing it without even seeing yet.

“Fred.” His voice is a broken croak, and he struggles to sit up. “Fred!”

“Oh my God, Fred!” Hermione gasps, and she's there in a flurry, bent over to help the three men right themselves and arrange their positions so they can all get a good look at the lost Weasley twin.

Fred appears dazed, though comprehension begins to dawn on him even as they watch. George's throat is tight with emotion, and all he wants to do is bury himself inside Fred and keep him as close as possible, never let him go again. He looks just like he had on the battlefield before the explosion had taken him out, except for a few shocks of white streaking through his hair, like they'd been specifically selected and bleached for fashion rather than a natural occurrence. It takes a moment for anyone to notice the blood on his jumper.

“Freddy, are you hurt?” Ron inquires a little urgently, more able to articulate words while George is still reeling under the return of his formerly dead twin. He pushes at Fred's clothes, trying to get at skin to see where the blood is coming from.

That seems to be the trigger Fred needs to respond to anything, and he jolts forward, head whipping around. “Where's Harry?” he demands. His eyes land on George, and he returns the clutching grip with desperate hands. “Georgie, did Harry come out too?”

“N-no, you're the only one that came out,” George stammers. He feels like his eyes can't get any bigger, trying to take in everything all at once. “Fred—”

“We have to get him out,” Fred declares urgently. He wrenches and lurches up to his knees, moving like he has forgotten but is quickly remembering how his limbs work, and he plants hands on Ron's shoulders to heave himself up to his feet. George and Ron scramble up with him as he continues, “He was bleeding, and he was sad, we have to help him, George. He woke me up, and we can't leave him there.” He devolves to babbling, and George focuses his energies on calming his soulmate, his beloved twin brother, trying to get him to slow down and make sense.

Out of the corner of his eye, George sees Ron and Hermione examining the rope around Fred's waist, still wound tightly. He manages to get Fred to quiet down enough, though still buzzing with nervous energy and anxious magic in time to hear Hermione say, “The rope around Fred's waist does't lead to the archway.”

“What do you mean?” George asks, turning away from Fed without letting go of him, an arm around his waist while his other hand links fingers with Fred's.

“Both ropes are leading into the Veil,” Ron replies, pointing to indicate each thing as he speaks of them. “So the rope around Fred is only attached to the one on the archway.”

There is a beat, and then both twins grasp the rope and give a tug. There is resistance. Ron grabs a section of the rope ahead of them, and Hermione stands back with her wand ready while the three Weasleys tug again. Again, resistance, but more rope pulls out of the portal towards them. They can't tug too harshly, they all know instinctively, lest it causes Harry injury. Slow and steady, they pull the rope, and it shortens whenever there is slack, which only leaves a sense of endlessness to the whole endeavor, continuously pulling a rope that doesn't actually pool on the floor like normal ropes. Eventually, though, the rope takes a downward angle.

“Is he laying down?” George asks, confused, fingers tangling with Fred's as they reach and pull and reach again, Ron ahead of them and working in sync.

“He expended a lot of magic,” Fred says, voice tight with worry. “If I came from the Veil, then he must have resurrected me, and necromancy for anyone is no small feat. I remember his arm or hand bleeding, and he looked tired and sad.”

“He likely passed out from magical exhaustion,” Hermione concludes. “Harry is powerful, and he's had trouble controlling the strength he puts behind some tasks. He's never attempted necromancy before, and very little is known about the Veil.”

The rope stops moving, and they pause. The Weasleys brace their legs and set their shoulders, adjust their grips on the rope, and at a count of three, they heave once more, not letting up. The rope strains but doesn't snap. They take an arduous step back, putting their combined weight behind the effort. At first it sees they'll be stuck there, that their bodies will give out or the rope will snap. Fred mutters that he doesn't remember this much resistance on the way out of the Veil, but of course, he hadn't been fully coherent yet either.

“Come on, Harry, mate,” Ron grunts, shoulders and arms flexing with their straining strength. “Time to come out of there.”

“Time to come home, sunshine,” Fred whispers, and the words resonate within George, deep in his soul. Sunshine. That had been the endearment Fred couldn't help but gift Harry upon their bonding.

Fred's sunshine, and George's pumpkin. Harry always ducks his head and blushes, shy and unused to true affection.

He and Fred were supposed to teach and show Harry the joys of love and affection and intimacy. George should have upheld the promise after Fred's death. He'd failed spectacularly, but he isn't going to continue the neglect. Harry deserves better than that.

“Come home, pumpkin,” George whispers, a catch in his voice.

The rope suddenly gives, and they all stumble back while a sideways, seemingly empty lasso drags through the portal of the Veil, mist clinging to it for a moment before dissipating. Hermione grabs the rope while the men stumble back to their feet, and she tugs the lasso and whatever lay in it further from the Veil, grunting as though the invisible burden weighs more than expected. She stops and settles a few feet away from the Veil, far enough that no one can accidentally tumble back in.

George and Fred scramble forward, going down on their knees without a care for the stone floor. They help Hermione move what has to be Harry under his special cloak, although...George can't feel the texture of that unreal fabric. A glance at Fred, who shakes his head; he doesn't feel it either.

The smear of blood across the floor from Veil to where they gather is unnerving and makes his heart pound irregularly.

Using touch alone, George and Fred roll Harry to his back and straighten all of his limbs. They deftly check him over for wounds, careful and methodical. His small form is astonishingly cold, but not to the point where they're worried about hypothermia. George finds the bleeding hand, and he clutches it, watching the crimson seep out of thin air between his fingers. He whispers softly to his bondmate that they'll fix him up good as new in no time. The smaller man remains quiet, which is alarming, but the rise and fall of Fred's hand flat on Harry's invisible torso confirms he's breathing.

Hermion casts a series of diagnostic spells while Ron works on un-sticking the rope from the archway and bringing it over to the group. He drapes it over where they think Harry's legs are to that the rope loops and dips, indicating the shape of him to help mark his exact position. Meanwhile, George and Fred use their free hands to pluck and scrape, looking for an edge of the cloak to peel away from Harry so they can see him.

“Aside from the wound on his hand and some superficial wounds to his feet, his only other ailment is magical exhaustion,” Hermione reports with no small amount of relief in her voice. “You two should be able to focus on your bonds with him and feed him just a little of your magic, enough to wake him up and get him to remove the Cloak. Fred, be careful. We don't know how your magic has been affected by recent events.” A nice way to avoid saying “affected by your death.”

Ron, frowning, skates his hands along one of Harry's legs, down to his ankles. “He isn't wearing shoes. Explains why his feet are hurt, and there's no hem of the Cloak. It's a Hallow, so wonder if he was able to manipulate it to be formfitting somehow.”

Hermione's lips purse pensively. “It's possible. We'll ask later, once he's awake.” Piercing eyes flit to the twins, clearly urging them to get on with it, despite Fred's confusion at the mentions of a Hallow. He hadn't been around for that explanation. George will have to fill him in, once they are all settled and safe.

Melting into the bond he has with his twin is as easy as breathing, even after months of that connection having been completely severed. They've been doing it since they came into their magic at age six, since before they knew what soulmates even are. George willingly, almost desperately, sinks into that mindscape soulmates can access, almost like a telepathic dreamscape fueled by magic, a type of Legilimency that requires no training, only a desire to connect on the most intimate of levels with their mate or mates. Fred staggers briefly when he's inundated with all the emotions George has experienced in the past few months—the grief, pain, anger, desperate. All the terrible things he'd felt, that he know Harry caught the brunt of, and the very little positive things he'd allowed himself to feel.

If it's enough to make Fred stumble and flail, to gasp for breath and stutter out a sob, he can only imagine how Harry felt. He has a lot of making up to do, and George steadfastly ignores Fred's confusion at the impression of the thought the older twin receives in the mindscape.

That confusion turns to disapproval, spicy and prickling, when they turn to Harry's portion of the triad bond. While it is warmed and a little discolored between him and Fred, likely due to the damage dealt from both of them dying, the bond between Harry and George looks a little worse for wear. It's frayed in places, worn away and frazzled, dark stains here and there, and all George can feel is a deep sense of shame as he looks upon it. He swallows hard, fists clenching at his sides, faced with the results of the neglect Harry has suffered.

“There will be time to address this later,” Fred says with steel in his voice. “Let's get our mate first.”

George nods, swallowing down his shame and closing his eyes. Holding one of Fred's hands, he reaches out and grasps his portion of Harry's connection to their triad bond. Fred follows suit on his side. Breathing in sync, their magic melds and coils around each other, then seeps into the braided cords of Harry's end. Love and adoration and Harry pumps into the bond, riding the waves of magic, offering him strength and a boost of the essence that fuels them all so he can heal and come back to them safe and whole.

At first it's quiet, like talking to a sleeping person. The more they coax and cajole, padding him with healing magic to patch in the voids of his own reserves until he can replenish on his own, the more a spark of awareness seems to glow. Before long, that little spark becomes more Harry until they're back in their own bodies, and the hand George is hold clenches around his fingers, and a gasp escapes the lips they can't see.

“Hey there, sunshine,” Fred croons, ignoring the hinky face Ron pulls whenever he hears any of his siblings sounding any level of lovey-dovey with their partners. “Can you take off the Cloak? We can't see you right now, beautiful.”

Harry makes a quiet questioning noise, sleepy and confused like he usually is when waking up from either being sick or an involuntary crash-out. There is some shuffling, and then Harry melts back into view, blearily looking around from his place on the ground. The bond that had felt muted and quiet return to its usual volume, and George sighs with relief, bringing the bloody hand up to his lips to kiss reverently and uncaring of the copper smear left behind.

Clumsily, like an uncoordinated child, Harry pushes the Invisibility Cloak toward Hermione, saying, “Box?” She smiles, carefully folding the precious material and turning to tuck it back into the box laying nearly forgotten some feet away. Then he tries to sit up, and Fred is quick to swoop in to help and brace Harry's back with his upraised knee.

“What happened to your hand, pumpkin?” George asks, carefully turning the injured appendage so he can examine it now that he can actually see it and not just feel the gaping wound.

“Resurrection Stone in there,” Harry mumbles, not making full sentences quite yet. He lists to the side a little, but it's toward Fred's body, so he just thunks against his chest rather than fall back to the floor. His free arm clumsily swings around, and he tries to pick at the bloody gash, as if to dig something out.

“Mate, mate, you're gonna make it worse,” Ron protests catching his hand and holding it still. Ignoring Harry's weak protests, he conjures water to wash away the blood to get a better look into the laceration. George holds his hand with the fingers flattened out of the way, and after a minute, his little brother murmurs a spell that carefully extracts the oddly-colored obstruction form his torn flesh. Hermione holds the box out for Ron to drop the second Hallow in after it too has been rinsed, and then she takes over to cast some healing charms.

“I know you're the Master of Death, love, but I really need you to take better care of yourself from not on, okay?” Fred mutters against Harry's messy mop of hair as the witch winds some bandages around Harry's palm once the blood has been stopped.

“At the very least, put your shoes on before you leave the house to wander through the land of the dead,” Ron snarks, shuffling down his body and holding Harry's feet up for Hermione to examine.

George swallows hard, petting Harry's hand in silent apology. If he hadn't been acting like a complete prat, Harry wouldn't have left the house at all, let alone without shoes or consulting anyone just disappearing into the Veil on a suicide mission to bring back their dead soulmate. Emerald eyes, tired and lined with dark shadows that have been there for far too long, flick up to his hesitantly, and something inside him wails in agony when he recognizes that look. A request for approval, for forgiveness he never needed to begin with because he'd done nothing wrong.

“We should get home before someone notices we're here,” Hermione says, apparently finished with the healing charms and wrapping bandages. She tucks away her wand and gathers her supplies and Harry's box while Ron busies himself with untying the rope around Harry's trim waist, and then coiling it up tidily. “I'd hate for the Unspeakables to catch wind of what happened before we can even come up with a good cover story for Fred's miraculous return from the dead.”

“Molly needs to know,” Harry speaks up as George and Fred begin to stand, holding their smaller mate between them. “She needs to see.” His tone is borderline desperate, eyes wide with urgency despite his exhaustion.

“Of course she does, Harry, but you're exhausted. Physically and magically. You need to rest. Your health is more important right now.”

“I can rest at the Burrow.”

George barks a laugh involuntarily, clutching at both of his bondmates. “I severely doubt that, pumpkin. You need quiet and peace, and nothing about the Burrow promotes those.” Again, he kisses Harry's bandaged hand and helps Fred walk Harry out of the eerie, cold chamber he would rather never see again. “We'll get you settled at home, and then we'll see about revealing Fred's resurrection to everyone, yeah?”

“I don't want Molly to hate me anymore,” Harry says brokenly, head buried in Fred's chest as they had started walking. Now they all halt, shocked. George can feel his heart shatter just that little bit more, and he feels the echo of it in Fred's bond. “Please, can we show Molly?” His voice is small and broken.

“Oh Harry...” Hermione cries, tears at the corners of her eyes, and she presses close to hug him in the open space between where George and Fred flank him.

Ron closes in behind her, using his superior height and arm length to fold all of them into a slightly awkward but heartfelt embrace. “Mate, Mum has never hated you. She never blamed you for what happened. It was war. People died. You're not responsible for all of them either. And she killed Bellatrix for you and Sirius. Mum would never put the death of any of us, much less one of your own soulmates, on your hands unless you were at the end of the wand or weapon that dealt the killing blow.”

Harry makes a choked noise, a strangled sob he tries to hide. George buries his lips in Harry's messy curls, endlessly ashamed for his part in his bondmate's self-loathing and anguish. He'll never forgive himsel for the pain and doubt he's contributed to, lashing out in his grief rather than clinging to and caring for what he still had. His arms tighten protectively around Harry, and he ignores Fred's calculating gaze, always able to cut to his twin's sins faster than a Snitch.

The group remain close and entangled in a many-armed embrace until Harry seems to have calmed down for the most part, a dejected sniffle all that can be heard. “We'll go see Mum and Dad,” Fred decides, voice solemn. “And we'll just make sure they know Harry needs rest and quiet. I'd rather not put this off either.”

Harry's head bobs rapidly in his agreement. Again, they start their trek through the Department of Mysteries, and then through the rest of the Ministry, Ron leading the way and Hermione following behind with Fred and George and Harry tucked safely in between.

~*~~*~*~*~~*~

Mum's hysterical response to Fred's return from the dead is as dramatic, and well-deserved, as he could have expected. Dad's collapse from standing to sitting on the floor with his back to the kitchen cabinets is more shocking, but once he can pry himself form his weeping mother's grasp, Fred goes down on the floor to hug his father, saying nothing of the man's broken tears and too-tight grasp. George disappears into one of the bedrooms with Harry before a crying Ginny can add to all the fuss, for which Fred is grateful despite how he yearns to reconnect with them both.

There would be time later, and Harry needs the quiet.

Hermione goes up to sit with him when George comes back down, unable to part form Fred so soon after gaining him back, and Fred aches for his brother. He'd lost both mates, one after another, and though one had come back not long after death, he clearly hadn't had the proper time to heal and grieve. Both of his mates have suffered so. Fred will do his best to make it right again.

Somehow, he manages to soothe the tears away enough to get up off the floor with Dad and Ginny. He gets Dad to a chair, and he can hear Ron in the other room quietly speaking through the Floo. Not long after, Bill and Fleur stumble out, clamoring to get at Fred. Ginny goes to silently cry some more with quietly sniffling Mum, who watches her children swarm each other, eyes never leaving the one she'd lost. Half an hour later, Charlie and Percy are there, too, and Percy looks like he's died a few times before arriving, clinging to Fred. Fred vaguely remembers being beside his older brother in the battle, and he can only imagine the anguish Percy had experienced during and after.

The whole ordeal, George hovers and hushes them, gently reminding them to keep the volume down so Harry won't be disturbed. They can see Molly visibly refrain from hustling to the room Harry is in to fuss like she is so wont to do, and Ron is sure to remind her that if Harry needs anything, Hermione would take care of it or come ask for help. Harry needs quiet. Harry needs rest.

Eventually, the Weasleys who grieved him are finally calm enough to ask what happened. Fred can only explain in vague terms, though. He knows that he died, remembers the battle and the sudden pain and heat, and then a lethargic heavy weight keeping him pinned and complacent in an unfamiliar, cold place. He woke up very infrequently, and it was only briefly to observe some faceless nobody as dead as he as he or she shambled passed him. Thee was no sense of peace. No sense of completion. Just a desolate emptiness and sadness, broken only by an unnatural sleep that plagued him with an unpleasant sense of wrongness, like he was meant to be somewhere else doing something else.

His first clear memory is having a warm arm around his waist and silky, messy hair rubbing against his jaw as he unsteadily stumbles through the barren misty lands of the afterlife. Then there was Harry, small and weary and sad, clothed in something that looked like twinkling starshine under his skin, his smile sweet but unbearably sad before the kiss and the shove.

“It's time to go home, love. George is waiting.”

Ron and George explain their side of the story, about how they searched for Harry the day after an argument between Fred's two soulmates that Mum still looks angry about that Fred will be sure to get the specifics about later. Their parents and siblings are riveted, and Percy and Bill are just itching to go to the Department of Mysteries to investigate the Veil's perplexities. Mum cries on and off throughout both renditions of the past day's events, and by the end Fred is sure that she and Dad are more in love with Harry than they were before. There is something like regret and shame in Ginny's eyes, and Fred has a feeling he won't like hearing about why, just like with George.

For now, he sits on the couch with a sibling on each side, George on the floor between his legs, hands around his ankles with his back to the couch. His fingers comb through George's hair, detangling unkempt locks and hoping he can get Mum to trim his disheveled ends soon. A sense of exhaustion hovers on the perimeter of his thoughts, and he knows he'll need to crash soon.

Hermione enters the room with a wrinkle of concern on her brow some time later. “Molly, do you think we could get some tea and some extra blankets? Harry is having a hard time regulating his temperature with his magic so low.”

Fred's and George's heads snap up at the mention of Harry's discomfort. While they untangle themselves and stand, and the Weasley matron has already hustled away in a flutter of motherhenning, settling the kettle to boil while she goes to a trunk to grab a few quilts. The twins head for the bedroom Harry's hold up in, following their mother, and Arthur agrees to tend to the tea in the meantime. Molly coos in sympathy when they enter to see Harry curled up as small as he can get under the blanket and afghan already covering him. His head twitches in their direction as soon as they enter, soulmate “senses” tingling, and he makes a quiet noise filled with such longing that Fred and George can do nothing other than climb in with him, already halfway there before they even realize.

It's shocking how chilled his skin is when they touch him. The lanky redheads squeeze him in between their bodies, barely able to fit on the double bed. Molly bustles around, adding a quilt and an afghan on top of them, adding a few pillows, straightening and fluffing and murmuring soft words meant to comfort the Boy Savior shivering in bed.

Fred says nothing when a cold nose presses into the base of his throat or hair tickles his jaw and chin. He just buries his fingers in raven curls and rubs the arm George has wrapped around Harry's waist as he spoons up behind the younger man. Their bonds calm and quiet, pressed so close and breathing in each other's scents. Heartbeats sync, breathing evens out, and slowly but surely, Harry's shivers abate.

When Dad comes in with tea, it takes some convincing to get Harry, only half-conscious and still miserable and cold, to sit up and sip from the cup. George helps prop him up while Fred holds the cup for him.

“Poor dear,” Molly sighs, stroking a hand over Harry's head briefly before he leans back to lay down again between his soulmates. “That's right, Harry, you get all the rest you need. We'll take care of everything else.”

Harry mumbles in response, but it's not anything coherent. The twins smile and snuggle down with him, pressing reverent kisses where they can reach.

“What do you think caused him to get so cold?” Arthur asks quietly, voice a little rough from his uncharacteristic crying earlier. He murmurs a spell to send the empty teacups floating back to the kitchen and reaches over to gently smooth his hand over each head of hair in the bed.

“I imagine it's a combination of his magical exhaustion, physical and emotional exhaustion, and spending the last thirty-six to forty-eight hours exposed to whatever conditions are in the Veil,” Bill pipes up from the doorway. He has that older brother set to his shoulders, fondness and concern on his face. “His body needs time to adjust to the environment of the world of the living, and his magical core is too depleted to help. I won't be surprised if Harry experiences flu-like symptoms over the next few days.”

“I'm sure wandering around without shoes or socks didn't help,” Fred mutters, and his mother huffs and fusses, bustling out of the room. She returns with a pair of knitted socks, flips the ends of the blankets up to expose their feet, and wrestles the socks onto a mildly-protesting, definitely-whining Harry; he relaxes once his feet are no longer exposed, tucked safely away in socks and under layers of covers once more.

It shouldn't be as cute as it is.

Eventually, the excitement of the day catches up to all of them. The rest of the Weasleys start settling down for bed, and the house becomes quiet. Bill and Percy Floo home, and Charlie decides to stay the night before returning to wherever he'd come from; no way had it been Romania fo rhim to have arrived so swiftly on such short notice. Soon the only noises Fred can detect are the quiet noises of the household charms Mum has in place, the ticking of the clock, and his soulmates' breathing.

The bed, though smaller than the one they share at home, is warm and comfortable. Harry seems to have fallen into a deep sleep finally, aided by the combined body warmth and blankets and the closeness of both soulmates. Their bonds hum and sing with satisfaction, the broken pieces from trauma and grief and misunderstandings slowly mending the longer they are in contact. Contentment is like a living, breathing thing, and it's a struggle to remain awake under all the comfy vibes.

Unfortunately, Fred can't quite let himself give in just yet. There's too much on his mind. He waits for everything to feel calm and easy, for the house to be quiet with the family safely tucked away in sleep. Sure that no one will hear or come to interfere for whatever reason, Fred makes eye contact with his twin, who seems to be fighting sleep as well. His fingers tighten around where they're linked with George's on top of Harry's ribs.

“Tell me what happened, Georgie,” he whispers finally. The darkness nearly swallows the words, but he's sure George heard, especially when he sees the guilt darken his amber eyes.

George squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds, lips tightening, and his throat clicks as he swallows. Fred remains still and calm, trying to convey openness and understanding. He doesn't want to judge. He doesn't want to condemn. He just wants to know what happened while he was gone so he can help fix it. His soulmates are hurting, have been since his death if not before, and he needs to fix it. He needs to make sure they heal so they all can finally get the happy ending they all deserve together.

“I didn't handle your death well, Freddy,” George admits, his voice raspy with the echo of the devastation he's suffered. Fred bends his head closer so he can hear better, catch every word, and offer some form of comfort. “It was easier to pretend in a group of people, especially when I could focus on making sure Mum and Dad were okay. But the jokes feel flat without you I had to finish sentences without you. Food didn't taste the same, and the nightmares were unbearable.”

George pauses, and his eyes drop to the back of Harry's head. He takes another deep breath. “Harry did the best he could. I realize that. He had a lot on his plate, more than most of us. Between the media, the clean-up, the trials, the funerals, and trying to get his personal affairs and inheritances in order, it's amazing he had any time for anything else. He did everything he could to help me and the rest of us, often ignoring his own needs. I think he used keeping busy and focusing on us and helping to rebuild and repair Hogwarts as a coping mechanism. I caught him breaking down a couple times, and he always pulled himself out of it because he didn't want me to worry about helping him. He...he doesn't think his grief should take priority over anyone else's. Like he doesn't deserve it.

“I didn't cope. I started drinking whiskey. Even though I could tell it made him nervous, sometimes outright terrified him, I got shitfaced more nights than not. And a lot of times, I got combative if I wasn't just a sobbing mess, and unfortunately, Harry was the one around the majority of those times.” He licks his lips, self-loathing creasing his face in deep lines around his mouth and in his brow. He can't meet Fred's gaze now, and it's hard for Fred not to scold him, not to rip into him. After the barest mentions of how bad Harry's childhood was, this was the last thing George should have done around him, to him.

“We did our best to make sure that Harry knew none of us blamed your death on him,” George starts again. “But Harry never believed it. He felt at fault for a lot of the things that had gone awry, and a few times he'd even said that he wished he'd died sooner so the war would have ended faster, or that he'd stayed died.” Here, they both feel the sudden stab of their mate-bonds twanging in alarm and protest at the mere notion. Harry shifts and whines, brows scrunching. Fred and George coo and shush him, stroking his hair and back until he settles again, content and slumbering once more.

“Ginny has been harsh with him. She hasn't been as sweet and accommodating since you and I mated with him, and she has snapped at me a few times for usurping her chances at a relationship with him, so I can only imagine what she's said to him on the subject. But after you died, after we buried you, she's been nastier. She said a few things to Harry that only cemented the belief that she blamed him for a lot of the things she suffered while he was on the run and for things that haven't gone right since. Most of what she says, even in relaxed situations, has been laced with sarcasm. Bill has had to talk to her a few times about being a bitch, and Mum even banned her from family dinner for a few weeks when she accused Harry of being a glorified media hound and martyr with no future prospects now that the war is over.”

“She's always had a sharp tongue,” Fred hisses, eyes flashing with fire. “And Mum has always let her get away with too much. Now we pay the price.”

“I didn't make matters any better,” George confesses. “I said a lot of things I didn't mean when I was drunk. Did a lot of stuff I never thought I would ever do, no matter what. I was horrible, Freddy, and he just took it. I don't know why Harry stayed with me. He should have left me to rot in my misery, but he stayed and just took everything like he thinks he deserves it. He took care of me every morning after, made sure I ate and hydrated and took care of whatever bruises I may have given myself while sloppy drunk. He cleaned whatever messes I made and took care of the shop if he didn't need to be at Hogwarts.”

Fred squeezes George's hand. The agony that sent George over the edge into alcoholism is an echo down the bond. Fred hates that he'd been the cause of such strife, that Harry and George couldn't even grieve and heal together in a healthy way because of the pain and the misplaced blame and anger tainting everything. Everything seems to have worked against them and caused a cocktail of toxicity and pain that only made things worse, keeping them locked in their misery, together and apart.

“The other night was really bad,” George says like he's being punched in the gut. “I had a bad day at the shop and started drinking early on. I was pretty well pissed by the time Harry came home, and I started in on him before he could get very far into the apartment. I told him I didn't know how he could possibly be tired and accused him of avoiding all of our problems by gallivanting off to Hogwarts or the library every whip-stitch. I don't remember everything I said, but I remember wanting him to hurt as badly as I was hurting in that moment, and I outright told him that your death would never have happened if it hadn't been for him. Drunk me did the exact opposite of what sober me has tried so hard to prevent. I threw my glass at him. I almost hit him with it. And for once he exploded back at me and he cried and then he was gone. I drank myself unconscious instead of going after him, and then I couldn't find him all day the next day.”

“I thought I lost him,” George whispers, voice choking up and expression agonized. “I thought I'd driven him away, acting the way his awful relatives did. Mum chewed me out, rightfully so. I eve wished she had hit me too, because I deserved it after what I did to Harry. What I almost did. I'm so ashamed, Fred, I can barely breathe from it. I hurt him so much. What if he'd died trying to get you back?”

“But he didn't,” Fred interrupts, not wanting George to spiral. He lets go of George's fingers in favor of reaching up and cupping his face, holding him in place as their eyes lock. “He didn't die, and he brought me back. Now we need to focus on healing, truly healing, because we all deserve our happy ending, yeah? Harry most of all, after all he's been through. So we're going to focus all our energies on getting him healed up, and you'll apologize, and we'll move on, yeah? And you're not to touch a single drop of alcohol. Not until we know you're not going to go off the deep end, yeah?”

“I don't need it,” George declares vehemently, tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes in the dark, the moonlight catching on the beads of moisture. “I don't want it. Not after what I did under its influence. We'll get ride of all of it tomorrow when we go home.” He buries his face in the back of Harry's messy head of hair. Fred can hear the smack indicating kisses being pressed there.

Harry stirs against them, and pretty emerald eyes blink open. “Georgie?” he asks quietly, voice dreamy with sleep and confusion, a tinge of concern.

Fred smiles, charmed anew with how cute Harry can be when he allows himself to be soft and vulnerable. His hand rubs circles along the smaller man's back, relishing in the pleased hum it earns him.

“Hey, pumpkin, you need something?” George asks, voice a little shaky, but otherwise Fred couldn't even tell that there had been a threat of tears only moments ago.

“You okay, George?” Ah, Harry. Of all of them, he's always been the most in-tune with the emotions in the bonds. Hermione has mentioned a time or twelve that, as a child raised in an abusive family, Harry had had to develop skills uncommon in those who didn't for self-preservation. Changes in mood from people around him and knowing escape routes and strategies no matter where he is are only a few that Fred has witnessed.

“Yeah, I'm okay, Harry, don't worry about me.” George lifts up and presses a kiss to Harry's cheek. Harry hums happily and lifts his face a little more, and George obliges without hesitation, kissing his lips sweetly, slowly.

Shrouded in darkness, Fred smiles and allows himself to relax as he watches. A sense of completion passes over him, his bonds content and singing. Any other time, watching his two mates kiss would have sparked an heat and desire in his core and elicited a physical response in his groin, but tonight he is merely grateful to be present to see it. Sighing, Fred changes his grip on George to rub up and down his arm, watching in delight as his twins shudders in response. He basks in the closeness, the love, the safety, and allows himself to sink into the mattress as he watches.

The kiss ends with a light smack of lips, and Harry hums as George peppers soft pecks from lips down to neck, curving over him in a mildly protective position while caressing Harry's throat and collarbones. The dark-haired man tilts his head to allow better access, neck straightening to face Fred again. After a few breathless seconds, Harry tilts his face up to Fred, and Fred gratefully, eagerly, takes advantage.

While no less soft and gentle, Fred's kisses are in no way slow. Even though he hadn't been aware the entire time of their separation, he still feels the effects, the distance and borderline-starvation for touch and intimacy, especially on Harry's end of the bond. He clings to both loves while taking what he needs from Harry's slightly-chilled lips, ever mindful of the gentleness Harry needs right now. Disjointed pieces in his soul click back into place. Fred moans softly, and he hears George groan in reply. Harry sighs, melting between them.

The kiss breaks just as natural as anything, and then, while Harry flattens onto his back between them, panting softly and licking his lips as if to chase Fred's taste, Fred and George lean over him to press close and seal the triad kisses. Fred ignores the scratch of George's unkempt stubble, focusing on the desperation and neediness in his lips and taste. They are both careful to remain propped over Harry so they don't crush or hurt him, but they are otherwise mindless. More puzzle pieces return to their places in the bonds. Heat washes through them. Sensation burns and consumes, and had they not all been so absolutely exhausted, he has no doubts they'd have thrown up privacy and soundproofing charms and start going at it like rabbits.

As it is, after a few minutes, they lose steam and slump in their postures, squishing Harry a little. Lips still cling and smack, tongues swiping, reluctant to let go. Small, callused hands curve around the side of their necks, short fingers scratching into their scalps. Finally, they break, and Harry lifts up just enough to peck little kisses to their panting, suction-swollen mouths so he is kissing them both at the same time. After only a minute, he loses strength in his arms and plops back down, unable to stay up, and the twins follow him down, cuddling tight against him.

“'M too tired,” he says by way of apology.

“That's okay, sunshine,” Fred coos. “We have all the time in the world to get reacquainted after you're better.”

“Just rest, pumpkin.” George hitches the blankets back up around them from where they'd fallen during their shifting around, and the twins tangle their legs with each other's and Harry's.

“Gonna stay?”

“Of course, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.”

“You too, George?”

Fred glances up in surprise in time enough to catch a flash of guilt on his brother's face. “Yeah, Harry, I'm not going anywhere. Go back to sleep, babe.” George presses another kiss, this time to Harry's ear, which makes him squeal and shuffle.

Harry hums again and falls asleep swiftly. Fred figures it'll be like that for a couple days until his magical core has had time to replenish and recover the reaches across tenderly caress George's hair and face. He listens to their combined breathing, soaks in warmth and scent, until both twins follow their soulmate in slumber.

~*~~*~*~*~~*~

Harry, of course, is discontent to be confined to their bed when they arrive home to the large apartment situated above the joke shop after Molly finally allows them to leave a few hours after breakfast. Fred and George allow Harry to relocated to the couch so he can be more close to them while they set about cleaning up and cleaning out the alcohol from the premises, but George sets up monitoring charms to be sure he doesn't try to get up and help or use any magic, especially when Harry had tried to say he would fix the windows and the other glass and pottery items his magic had shattered and exploded a few nights ago. His pout is adorable, but the twins do not fall prey to its or his big pretty green eyes' charms.

It only makes the pout more pronounced, and that results in affectionate kisses and teasing croons, but they still don't relent on the rules.

They know he secretly likes the fussing and care-giving, which extends their patience levels by leaps and bounds if he gets grouchy or bratty in not getting his way. He's never been subject to this level of care and attention when he was sick or injured growing up with the Muggles. He's used to being ignored, left to his own devices, and suffering in silence.

Fred and George are determined to change all of that, to pamper and care for him all his life, if it takes forever to do it.

While cleaning, George fills Fred in on what has happened in the Wizarding World since the Final Battle. Not a whole lot had honestly happened in the long run, but enough that Fred would need to adjust. He'd have to go to Gringotts and officially announce his return, but before that, they need to decide on a story explaining how he's returned from the dead. It wouldn't do to tell the truth; otherwise it will put an even larger target on Harry's back than just being the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice already has, either as a source of fear and aggression, further media attention, or to attract those who want him to bring their lost loved ones back to life.

They perk their heads up when the alarm for the monitoring charm goes off, and Harry squawks, “I have to pee!” in exasperation before George cancels it. Fred hovers nearby to make sure Harry doesn't need help, and when Harry exits the loo, he doesn't leave until the younger man sits back down safely on the couch with a half-serious huff. Fred drops a kiss to the top of his fluffy head, resets George's charm, and returns to repairing a window in the kitchen where George is setting the kettle on the stove for tea.

The twins move Harry back to the bedroom with a tray of tea, sandwiches, and biscuits, and they plant themselves on the bed with him to eat a late lunch together. Harry seems to relax under the soft, friendly atmosphere, and though he is still quiet, he opens up a little more to their attempts at easy conversation. Contentment flows through their bonds, glowing a bit in their shared mindscape. Tension seeps out of all three of them with the extended proximity of each mate.

He gets sleepy after he's eaten his fill, and the twins work quietly while their lover naps. A lot of Fred's clothes and personal items had been put in storage, the dichotomy of not being able to bear seeing a deceased mate's items in the wardrobe and around the house while also incapable of getting rid of any of it, so they work on unearthing everything and putting it back in the depressingly empty spaces.

Eventually, their tasks have all been finished, at least for the day. They crawl into the bed, and Harry wakes up while they shuffle under the covers. He smiles, clearly pleased at the prospect of cuddles, and he arranges them how he wants them, which apparently is with Fred in the middle. Fred is in no way complaining, arms wrapped around their bodies while their heads rest on his shoulders and chest and their fingers link over his abdomen.

“I missed you,” Harry murmurs after some time spent just laying and breathing and soaking in each other's company. “Both of you.”

A questioning noise sneaks out of him, and George shifts with his own frown. “What do you mean, Harry? George was still here.”

“He was, but not really.”

His face contorts, lines forming into a frown of his own. Fred and George both wait for their lover to elaborate. Harry at first seems content to leave it at that, fingers playing with George's, breath light as it fans across Fred's collarbone. Dark, long lashes flutter as green eyes flick up to glace at them briefly, almost shy, and then back down.

“George was here physically...but emotionally, he was very far away. Sometimes I couldn't even reach him through the bond. Especially when he drank. He was very good at pretending in front of his family—” and here, it hurts to hear Harry put that distance between him and the rest of the Weasleys, who should have been considered as his family too; it only cements the notion of all the damage done that the Weasleys will have to work to rectify in the future. “But at home, he didn't bother. I understood. I still do. But it was lonely. Sometimes he didn't even acknowledge that I was home or that I had been gone at all. Sometimes he spent all day and all night in the shop. A lot of times, I slept alone while he passed out on the couch or got up in the middle of the night because he couldn't stand to be in bed with me without you.” He frowns, warring with himself on saying something else, teeth biting into his lower lip. “Sometimes...Sometimes he could get really mean, too.”

George's next breath sounds painful. Fred tightens his hold around both of the, and his heart aches for both of them, wishing he could take the pain away, the ache of the gap between their ends of the soulbonds. Rubbing his hands up and down their backs, he can only offer physical comfort and the surety of his presence now.

“I'm so sorry, Harry,” George chokes out, fingers tightening around Harry's. His voice trembles with the force of his earnestness. “I never intended on hurting you. I should have been better to you, been more careful. I was so focused on my pain when I should have holding onto you with both hands. I was so scared I had lost you too, pumpkin. It never should have gotten to that point.”

“It's okay, George. I understand,” Harry says, cuddling closer to both of them. “I knew you didn't mean it. I just really missed you, and I missed Fred, and I wanted to make it better so we could be together again. And now we can, and you can make it up to me if you're still upset about it.”

“I feel like you should be more upset about it than you are,” George grumbles, although he remains tender and soft while caressing Harry's arm. “You should be angry. I would be.”

“Honestly? I'm too tired to be angry.” Harry snorts and settles more deeply in his place on the mattress. “I just want to move on and heal and get on with our lives now that Fred's back.”

“And we will,” Fred agrees, kissing Harry's forehead. He turns his face and does the same to George. “And we'll start right now with a nap. Everything else can wait. We'll start fresh.”

“Sounds good to me,” George decides after a moment of hesitant indecision.

“Perfect,” Harry murmurs with a dreamy smile. Sleep is heavily weighing down on him again. Bill had said that this would be his life for the next few days.

There is still a lot to be figured out. Pain that still needs to be soothed and remedied, wrongs that needs addressed and corrected. Finances and Gringotts and cover stories and all that adult rot. It all seems like so much. But they have the time now. Fred has the determination and wherewithal to see it through, and his reward at the end will be a long and happy life with his brother George and their precious soulmate Harry. That makes it all worth it in the end, forever, or however long they have left together.