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╰┈➤ ❝ [𝑇𝑊𝐸𝑁𝑇𝑌] ❞ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-
⁺⤾·˚.⃗.  [ᴡᴇᴀʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴀɴᴄɪɴ' sʜᴏᴇs] 𑁍ࠜೄ ･ﾟˊˎ
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
— Scottish Highlands
( December, 1994. )

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐓𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 in the assembly hall was thick with anticipation as the students filed in, the usual chatter and laughter replaced by an excited murmur. Professor McGonagall entered with her usual commanding presence, instantly quieting the room.

"The Yule Ball has been a tradition of the Triwizard Tournament since its inception," she began, her sharp eyes scanning the room. "On Christmas Eve night, we and our guests gather in the Great Hall for well-mannered frivolity. As representatives of the host school, I expect each and every one of you to put your best foot forward. And I mean this literally, because the Yule Ball is first and foremost... a dance."

The boys groaned collectively, slouching in their seats, while the girls buzzed with excitement. The murmurs of excitement only grew louder as the thought of an elegant evening danced in their minds.

McGonagall, ever the disciplinarian, shot them all a steely look. "Silence. Hogwarts has commanded the respect of the wizarding world for nearly ten centuries. I will not have you, in the course of a single evening, besmirching that name by behaving like a babbling, bumbling band of baboons."

Fred whispered to George with a grin, trying to stifle his laughter. "Try saying that five times faster," he challenged.

George raised an eyebrow. "You first."

Both of them muttered the tongue-twister under their breath, trying to speed up the words. "Babbling, bumbling band of baboons, babbling, bumbling band of baboons—"

Their antics were interrupted by McGonagall's stern voice. "Silence," she ordered, although there was a brief, almost imperceptible twinkle in her eye.

She continued with the lesson. "Now, to dance is to let the body breathe, inside every girl a secret swan slumbers, longing to burst forth and take flight." She paused dramatically before adding, "Inside every boy, a lordly lion prepared to prance. Mr. Weasley, will you join me?"

Ron, Fred, and George all froze, giving each other wide eyed glances. The entire hall watched, bemused, as McGonagall grabbed Ron by the arm and pulled him to the front of the room. Ron looked bewildered, and there was a chorus of snickers from the crowd. Fred and George's shoulders relaxed and they began snickering.

McGonagall placed a hand on her waist. "Now, place your right hand on my waist," she instructed, looking at Ron with expectant eyes.

"Where?" Ron asked, his voice tinged with confusion.

"My waist," McGonagall repeated with a thin smile, drawing a chuckle from the students.

Ron reluctantly complied, and a loud whistle came from George, causing him to flush crimson, beginning to hold his hand up to shoot his brother an obscene gesture but McGonagall continued, "Now bend your arm. Mr. Filch, if you please."

The music began to play, light and upbeat, filling the room as McGonagall started to demonstrate the steps. "One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three." She moved with grace, Ron awkwardly attempting to mirror her every move.

Harry leaned over to the twins, his voice low. "Oi! Never gonna let him forget this, are you?"

Fred and George shared a look and smirked. "Never," they replied in unison, their grins widening as they watched Ron's discomfort.

McGonagall clapped her hands. "Everybody come together!"

The girls in the hall instantly stood, eager to join in, but the boys remained seated, their reluctance still palpable.

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Boys, on your feet."

Cassie and Olympia exchanged an eye roll before making their way toward Fred and George. Cassie grabbed Fred by the arm, pulling him to his feet. Olympia, with a small smirk, reached down and tugged George's arm to get him moving. He hesitated, but followed her, a nervous energy radiating from him.

The girls took their positions in front of the boys, preparing to practice the waltz. McGonagall gave a nod, signaling that it was time to begin.

George, his face flushed with nervousness, placed his hands on Olympia's hips with an almost tentative touch. The moment their hands met, the tension between them was palpable. Olympia's breath hitched, but she steeled herself, trying not to let the feeling of his touch affect her.

But it did.

As the music began to flow through the hall, the world seemed to shift and settle around Olympia and George. The space between them felt charged with an unspoken weight, as if the air itself was thick with anticipation. Olympia felt it first, a flicker of awareness that made her pulse race — George's hand was warm against her waist, the faintest tremor in his fingers betraying the calm exterior he tried to maintain. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the power of his presence like a magnet pulling her in, drawing her closer with every breath.

Their eyes met, and the instant the contact was made, the rest of the world seemed to vanish. Every sound faded into the background, the murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet, all drowned out by the electricity between them. His eyes — so familiar and yet, in this moment, impossibly intense — were fixed on her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. She felt the weight of his gaze on her skin, as if his eyes could see straight into her soul. Her heart hammered in her chest, and for a moment, she couldn't even breathe, caught in the depth of that gaze.

George's breath caught as he held her closer, his grip on her waist tightening ever so slightly. Olympia's body responded before her mind could catch up — her pulse quickened, her chest rising and falling faster. There was a quiet, almost imperceptible tremor in his breath as he moved with her, as though the very act of holding her was causing him to lose control of himself, even if only for a split second. She couldn't look away, couldn't bring herself to break the connection they'd forged without words.

Their bodies swayed together in time with the music, but it was more than just the steps — they were in perfect sync, moving like two halves of a whole, as if the rhythm of the dance had become an extension of the pulse that raced between them. Every shift, every step felt like a declaration, each movement drawn out in slow, deliberate precision. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, but even the smallest touch sent sparks racing through her, igniting something inside her that had been dormant for too long.

George's eyes never left hers as they moved together, the intensity in his gaze only growing. There was something in the way he looked at her now — something deeper than the playful teasing he used to hide behind. His gaze was raw, vulnerable, and she could see the conflict in it, the yearning.

His breath hitched slightly as they turned, and Olympia felt it, the slight tremble in his chest that mirrored the one building in her own. They weren't just dancing — they were teetering on the edge of something they were both too afraid to touch, too afraid to name.

She could feel his fingers flex against her, his hand settling lower against the curve of her back, pulling her even closer to him. The heat between them was undeniable now, each breath they took mingling in the small space between them, their bodies so close she could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath her palm. It felt natural, instinctual — this pull, this need to be closer, to close the gap that had always existed between them.

The music surged, and for a fleeting moment, Olympia thought she might not be able to control the way her body was reacting. She felt every inch of him, the warmth of his chest pressed against hers, the steady pressure of his hand at her back. The chemistry between them was explosive, a slow burn that was building with every step, every second they shared. She had never felt so acutely aware of someone before, and yet, it was impossible to pull away, impossible to stop herself from leaning in just a little more.

Their faces were inches apart now, and she could feel the heat of his breath against her cheek, the faint scent of his cologne swirling around her. It was intoxicating, and she couldn't resist the urge to let her head fall slightly, her eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. Her lips parted, and the soft, silent invitation lingered in the air between them, unspoken yet loud enough for both of them to feel it.

But George didn't move. He held her tighter, his grip firm yet tender, and she felt the tension coil tighter between them. His jaw was clenched, his muscles stiff, as though he too was fighting something — something he couldn't name, something he wasn't ready to acknowledge. The moment stretched, lingering in a dangerous place between longing and restraint. His eyes flicked down to her lips for just a second, and Olympia felt her breath hitch in her throat. She couldn't stop herself now, couldn't stop the way her body responded to the magnetic pull between them.

She wanted him.

The thought hit her like a wave, crashing over her with all the force of a long-hidden truth she'd tried to ignore for so long. She wanted him — wanted the way he made her feel, wanted the way his presence made everything else fade away. But it wasn't just the physical pull, it was the connection. She could feel the truth of it in her bones, under her skin, within every part of herself.

As the final notes of the waltz echoed through the hall, the music came to an abrupt stop. The moment lingered in the air, the echo of their movement still pulsing between them, until Professor McGonagall's voice sliced through the heavy silence.

"Good! Everyone, meet here tomorrow at the same time for more lessons. Good day."

The words were like a bucket of cold water, pulling Olympia and George out of their trance-like state. The world around them began to rush back in, but it felt like a foggy haze, distant and unreal. For a moment, neither of them moved. They remained standing, their bodies still in perfect harmony, the unspoken tension between them heavy in the air.

Olympia's breath was shallow, her cheeks flushed from the intimacy of their dance, the heat of his touch still lingering on her skin. She slowly stepped back, her heart pounding, and it felt as though a part of her was reluctant to pull away, reluctant to let the moment end.

But as she did, she saw George's eyes — the raw, intense longing written in the depth of his gaze. It struck her like a physical blow. For a moment, she was speechless, caught in the silent whirlwind of everything she'd just felt. She could see it too, the same desire that had burned between them during the dance.

George's chest was rising and falling with every breath, his face flushed from the movement, but his eyes — they were darker now, filled with something far more intense than just the dance they had just shared. He looked at her like he wanted more, like he needed more, but he couldn't bring himself to reach for it.

His lips parted, his hand still tingling from where it had rested on her waist. The warmth of her body seemed to cling to him, and the longing in him was almost painful to watch. His fingers flexed as if reaching for her again, but the distance between them was suddenly too much, too painful to bear.

The pulse of desire coursed through him, stronger than anything he had ever felt before. His mind was screaming at him to take another step forward, to close the gap between them, but fear and hesitation held him back. He wanted to pull her close again, to feel the rhythm of her heartbeat against his, to lose himself in the way they moved together.

But he couldn't. He couldn't because he was terrified — terrified of what might happen if he let himself fall completely. Terrified of the way she made him feel, the lack of control he felt at her touch, the effect she had on him.

And so, he stood there, frozen, his hand still trembling slightly as it dropped to his side. His body ached for her, his mind screaming that he wanted her more than he could put into words. But all he could do was force a weak, almost uncertain smile as she stepped away from him.

"Good job," he said softly, his voice rough, betraying the storm of emotions he was fighting to suppress. It sounded hollow, like a farce — he didn't care about the dancing anymore. He cared about her, about the way she made him feel, the way she made him want her.

Olympia nodded, her breath still coming in soft bursts as she forced herself to step back, to break the moment, to pull herself together. She glanced at him once more — just once more — and saw it, too. The same longing. The same ache. Her chest tightened, her pulse quickening again. It was too much, too overwhelming to even comprehend.

The moment passed, and with it, the reality of everything between them hung like an unspoken promise in the air. The music had stopped, but the silence between them was filled with a tension neither of them could ignore.

George watched her walk away, and as he did, a storm of emotions flooded him — regret, desire, hope, and the overwhelming need to hold onto this feeling. But he was left standing there, empty-handed, watching her go, knowing that the tension, the longing, would only continue to build between them.

Olympia's steps were hurried, her feet slapping against the cold stone floors of the corridor as she pulled Cassie along. Her hand gripped her twin's arm tightly, the urgency of her movements sharp, like she was trying to outrun something — something that was chasing her, tightening around her chest, suffocating her. Her breaths came in quick, shallow gasps, and she was desperate to get somewhere, anywhere, away from everyone.

"Cass." Olympia's voice broke as she spoke, barely more than a whisper, but Cassie could hear the distress in it, the quiver of something raw just beneath the surface. She didn't even need to say more; Cassie's eyes immediately softened with concern. She could feel the tension in Olympia's body, the anxiety that was practically radiating from her sister.

Before Cassie could ask what was wrong, Olympia pulled her around the corner and toward the underside of a stairwell and into a bathroom, the shadows wrapping around them like a cloak of privacy. She shoved the door open, and once they were out of sight, Olympia's breath hitched in the air. She pulled Cassie further into the quiet alcove, away from any prying eyes, before she suddenly stopped and sank against the cold stone wall.

"Olympia?" Cassie's voice was quiet, unsure of what had just triggered this sudden outburst from her sister.

Olympia's hands were trembling as she placed them on her face, trying to push the sudden wave of emotion back, but it was no use. Tears spilled from her eyes, warm and unexpected, as they streamed down her cheeks. She gasped for air, her breath catching in her throat as her chest tightened even more.

"I... I can't, Cass... I can't do this," Olympia stammered, trying to steady her breath. "I don't understand what's happening, but I feel like I'm losing control, and I hate it. I hate it so much. I hate feeling so... so weak."

Her voice cracked again as she spoke, raw and vulnerable, the weight of her emotions crashing over her like a tidal wave. Her shoulders trembled, and she let herself slide down the wall, finally sitting down on the cold stone floor. Her face buried in her hands as she fought to steady her breathing, but it was no use. Her whole body felt like it was on fire with confusion, with fear.

"I can't stop thinking about him," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "George. Every time I try to push it away, it comes rushing back. I can't — every time I see him, Cass, it's like I lose myself. I don't even know what I want, or what's real anymore. And I hate not knowing."

Her words were desperate, and the tears continued to flow as she let the flood of emotions spill out. Her mind was a whirlpool of thoughts — George, the dance, their connection, their tension — and none of it made sense. She didn't understand what it meant, what any of it meant. The way George had looked at her, the way she felt when they danced—everything was so overwhelming, so unfamiliar.

"I'm supposed to be in control, Cass. I always am. But with him—" She cut herself off, sucking in a sharp breath, "I'm not. I'm just not."

Cassie knelt down beside her, placing a gentle hand on her sister's shoulder. She didn't say anything right away, just sat there quietly, letting Olympia's words settle in the stillness between them. She could feel the tension in her sister's body, the way she was so desperately trying to regain control of the situation, but Cassie knew, more than anything, that her sister wasn't going to be able to do that on her own—not without understanding what was happening inside her heart.

"Ol, you don't have to have everything figured out right now," Cassie finally said, her voice steady, her words gentle but firm. "You don't have to control how you feel. It's okay to not know. It's okay to be confused. But you have to give yourself a chance to feel it, to let yourself feel whatever it is you're feeling."

Olympia's head shot up, and for a moment, she looked almost incredulous, as though she hadn't expected that kind of response from her twin. "But I can't, Cass," she whispered, her voice breaking. "It's too much. I can't let myself... I can't let myself fall for him, not like that. It would ruin everything."

Cassie sat with her for a long moment, her hand still on Olympia's shoulder, offering what comfort she could. She didn't push her twin to speak more than she was ready to. They both knew that Olympia needed time to process this on her own, even if it meant sitting in the silence for a little while longer.

"I know it feels like you're losing control," Cassie said softly. "But maybe, for once, you should let go. You don't have to have all the answers. Not right now. Not with him."

Olympia's breath hitched, and she wiped away her tears, trying to regain some semblance of control. But in the quiet of the stairwell, with the weight of Cassie's words lingering between them, she realized something for the first time: maybe it wasn't about control. Maybe, for once, it was about surrendering. Letting herself feel what was inside her, even if it scared her.

Even if it meant letting herself feel for George.

Olympia wiped the last of her tears away, her hands still trembling as she looked up at Cassie. There was a heavy silence in the air, but something inside Olympia felt different now. Her heart was pounding, the knot in her chest still tight but not as suffocating as before. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words came out in a shaky rush.

"I... I almost kissed him, Cass," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes dropped to the floor, suddenly finding it hard to meet her twin's gaze. "Twice, actually. At the Burrow over the summer, and again on the train. Both times, it was like everything just... clicked."

Her voice cracked slightly, the weight of the confession sinking in. She hadn't realized how much she'd been holding back, how much she'd been running from what had almost happened, until the words spilled from her lips.

Cassie didn't look surprised. She met Olympia's eyes with a steady gaze, her expression softening. There was a pause before she finally spoke, her voice calm, but her eyes filled with understanding.

"I know," she said simply.

Olympia blinked, her mind stumbling to catch up with the words. "You know?" She repeated, a little stunned. "How—how did you know?"

Cassie gave a knowing smile, the corners of her lips tilting up. "Fred told me," she said, shrugging lightly.

Olympia felt a flush of embarrassment heat her cheeks, but also a sense of relief. Her heart had been pounding from the weight of that secret, and now it felt lighter somehow. She hadn't expected Cassie to know, but it made sense. She had always been the first to notice when something was off with Olympia. Still, there was a sting in the fact that she hadn't told her twin sooner.

"I'm sorry, Cass," Olympia said quietly, guilt lacing her words. "I should've told you. I didn't mean to keep it from you. It just... it felt too complicated, too messy."

Cassie gave a small shake of her head, her expression warm and understanding. "It's okay, Ols. Really," she said, reaching out to pull Olympia into a tight hug. The gesture was soft but reassuring, wrapping Olympia in the comfort she desperately needed. "I know you were just trying to figure it out on your own. But you don't have to, not anymore. Not with me."

Olympia's chest tightened again, but in a different way now — softer, gentler. Her sister's support made her feel like maybe, just maybe, she didn't have to figure everything out on her own. Maybe she could let go of the control for once. Maybe she could just let herself feel.

Cassie pulled back slightly, her hands resting on Olympia's shoulders as she gave her a serious look. "For once, Ol," she said, her voice softer now, "just let yourself lose control. Don't think so much about what might happen or how it'll change things. Just let yourself feel what's there, with him. Whatever it is."

The words lingered in the air, a balm to the ache that had been gnawing at Olympia's insides. She nodded slowly, the tension in her body starting to melt away. Maybe it was time to stop pretending that everything had to be neatly sorted and controlled. Maybe it was time to embrace the messiness of it all.

"I'll try," Olympia whispered, her voice steadying as she let out a slow breath. For the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe again, like the pressure had lifted, even if just a little. She wasn't alone in this. She didn't have to have all the answers.

And with Cassie by her side, maybe—just maybe—she could finally let herself feel.

"𝐎𝐈!" Fred swung his arm around George's shoulders as they walked down the hallway, the familiar, easy grin plastered on his face. It was second nature, a way to break the tension that seemed to be hanging in the air. "So, mate," Fred began, voice light and teasing. "What was all that about, huh?" He shot a sideways glance at George, expecting the usual playful response, the banter that would follow.

But instead, George's face remained dead serious. His eyes were focused straight ahead, his lips pressed into a thin line. It was so unlike him, so different from the usual quick wit and sarcastic remarks Fred was used to. Fred's smile faltered, the casual nature of their walk suddenly feeling like a thousand pounds of weight on his shoulders.

George didn't even glance his way. He just shook his head slightly, his posture rigid. Fred's arm, which was still draped across his shoulders, felt heavier now — like a burden instead of a playful gesture. He couldn't help but feel the knot tightening in his stomach.

The silence between them was deafening, and Fred's chest constricted with the realization that something was wrong. This wasn't normal. George had never shut him out before, never. They had shared everything, always — there was no wall between them. But now, there was a distance in George's demeanor that Fred had never seen, and it stung.

Fred's mind raced, trying to grasp at what had changed, what had made George so distant so suddenly. He opened his mouth, about to ask again, but before he could say anything, George's voice cut through the silence.

"Nothing. Nothing at all." George's words were flat, devoid of any emotion, and the finality in his tone made Fred's heart drop. He couldn't read him, couldn't figure out what was going on behind that carefully guarded expression. It felt like a door had slammed shut in his face.

Fred swallowed hard, trying to keep the surprise and the hurt from showing on his face. "Right," he said quietly, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Well, if you say so."

George didn't offer anything else, and the rest of the walk back to the dormitory passed in a strained silence. Fred's mind was still spinning, but George didn't seem like he was in the mood for talking. And for the first time in forever, Fred wasn't sure what to do.

It was a feeling he didn't like. Not with George. Not with his brother.

Fred and George returned to their dorm, Fred's mind still swirling with the events of the day. He didn't know what had happened with George, why his best mate, his own twin brother, was so closed off, so distant.

Fred needed space to think, to clear his head. Deciding to hop into the shower for a bit, he grabbed a towel and headed into the bathroom, the steady hum of the water offering him some kind of solace.

Fred stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, and immediately choked on the thick haze that had taken over the room. His nose wrinkled at the pungent smell of weed, his head already starting to feel a bit light from the sheer volume of smoke in the air. "Merlin's beard," he muttered, striding across the room to yank open a window, letting the icy December air rush in. A second hand high began to settle on his mind, by no means was the feeling of a high foreign to Fred — but he wasn't expecting it.

As the smoke thinned slightly, Fred's eyes landed on George. He was slumped against his bed, his eyelids half-lowered, barely aware of his surroundings. Lee sat nearby, holding another joint loosely between his fingers, clearly out of it himself. But it was George who caught Fred's attention — his usually sharp, mischievous twin looked lost, completely disconnected. Fred's gut churned at the sight.

"George," Fred said, his voice stern as he walked closer. "What the hell are you doing, mate? You never let yourself get this high."

George didn't even look at him at first, lazily reaching out as Lee passed the joint his way. "Piss off, Fred," he muttered, his voice slow and slurred, his words almost blending together.

Fred frowned, the concern in his chest quickly turning into frustration. "No," he said sharply, snatching the joint from George's hand before he could take another hit. "This isn't you, Georgie. Not like this."

That got George's attention. His unfocused eyes snapped to Fred, narrowing as he sat up straighter. His expression twisted with irritation, and for a moment, the room was silent save for the faint whistle of wind from the open window. Then George's lips curled into a bitter sneer.

"Control," George hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "That's rich, coming from you."

Fred blinked, caught off guard by the sudden hostility. "What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked, his tone firm but edged with confusion.

George shoved himself to his feet, stumbling slightly as he moved closer to Fred. His usually warm brown eyes were clouded with something unrecognizable — something sharp and angry. "You always have to be in control, don't you? Always coming up with the ideas, always leading the charge, and expecting me to just follow along like your shadow."

Fred stared at him, stunned. "That's not—"

"Don't," George snapped, cutting him off. His voice rose, cracking with pent-up frustration. "Don't stand there and pretend it's not true. You love it, don't you? Being the one in charge, the one everyone listens to, while I'm just the other half. The twin who goes along with whatever you want. Well, fuck it, Fred."

Fred's grip tightened around the joint in his hand as he tried to process George's words, wincing slightly as it burned into his palm. "You're not thinking straight," he said, his voice softer now, trying to calm the storm brewing in his brother. "You're stoned out of your mind, Georgie. Just sit down, we'll —"

George lunged forward suddenly, his hands grabbing at Fred's wrist to wrestle the joint back. "Give it back, Fred," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Fred yanked his arm away, his heart pounding. "No, George! This isn't you, and you know it."

"Don't act like you know me!" George shouted, his voice breaking as his frustration boiled over. "You don't know what it's like to always play second fiddle, to always be the one people look past because you're Fred. You get to be the leader, the funny one, the smart one — while I'm just supposed to keep up. Well, maybe I don't want to keep up anymore!"

The sheer force of George's words made Fred stumble back a step. Before he could respond, George reached for him again, more aggressively this time. His fingers gripped Fred's arm, trying to wrestle the joint away, and for a moment, the two brothers were locked in a tense struggle.

"George, stop it!" Fred barked, his voice strained as he tried to push his brother back.

"Enough!" Lee's voice cut through the tension like a blade, startling both of them. He stood unsteadily, his own high evident, but there was a surprising clarity in his eyes as he looked at George. "Fred's right, mate. You're out of control. This isn't like you."

George froze, his hands still gripping Fred's arm, his breathing ragged. His chest rose and fell as he stared at Lee, the words sinking in slowly. For a moment, the fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something more vulnerable — something that looked dangerously close to despair.

But just as quickly, the walls went back up. George released Fred's arm and stepped back, his expression hardening once more. "You don't get it," he muttered, his voice low and hollow. He turned away, his shoulders slumping as he collapsed onto his bed. "Neither of you do."

Fred stood there, breathing heavily, his mind racing. He didn't recognize this version of George — the anger, the bitterness, the pain that had been hidden for so long. He exchanged a worried glance with Lee, who looked just as shaken.

Fred wanted to say something, to bridge the growing chasm between them, but the words wouldn't come. All he could do was stand there, the joint still clutched in his hand, and wonder how things had spiraled so far out of control.

George staggered to his feet, swaying as he tried to steady himself against the bedpost. His red-rimmed eyes darted to the door. "I can't... I can't stay here. I need to go find her," he muttered, the words barely coherent.

Lee's eyes narrowed with concern. He stepped forward, blocking the door. "Find who, George? Marianna?"

George stopped in his tracks, his head snapping up as if the name startled him. For a moment, he looked genuinely confused, his brow furrowing as though trying to piece together a puzzle in his fogged mind. Then, almost absently, he shook his head. "Who?" he said, his voice soft and distant.

Fred and Lee exchanged a worried glance, Lee's buzz wearing off just enough for him to see how far gone George was. "George, mate, you're not going anywhere," Lee said, stepping in beside Fred.

"Move," George muttered, his tone impatient, but there was no real force behind it. He stumbled toward them but stopped short as Fred crossed his arms.

"You're not in any state to go running off," Fred said firmly. "And you know it."

George groaned dramatically, throwing his head back as if they were the biggest inconvenience in the world. "Fine," he snapped, collapsing backward onto his bed with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. His hand reached beneath the bedframe, and a moment later, he dragged out an old trunk.

Fred's stomach sank as George flipped the trunk open and pulled out a dusty bottle of Firewhiskey, the amber liquid sloshing as he unscrewed the cap.

"Oh, no, you don't," Fred said sharply, lunging forward and snatching the bottle from George's grasp just as he brought it to his lips. "That's enough, George."

"Give it back," George mumbled, slouching back against the headboard. His eyelids were heavy, and his speech was slurred. "What's it to you, huh? You're not Mum."

Fred's patience snapped. "What's it to me? You're my bloody twin! You think I'm going to sit here and let you drink yourself into an even bigger mess?" His voice rose, the frustration bubbling over. "You're cut off, George. You keep this up, and I'll go straight to McGonagall. I mean it."

At that, George's bleary eyes fixed on Fred, a flicker of irritation sparking through his haze. "Whatever," he muttered dismissively, waving his hand weakly as if shooing Fred away. He leaned back on the bed, his head hitting the pillow with a soft thud.

Fred stood there, clutching the bottle of Firewhiskey, his heart pounding. Lee placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze as George's breathing evened out, his high finally dragging him into an uneasy sleep.

Fred sighed, setting the bottle down on the desk, his fingers tightening briefly around it. "This isn't like him," he whispered to Lee, his voice thick with worry.

Lee nodded grimly. "No, it's not."

Fred stood there for a long moment, staring at the Firewhiskey in his hand. The weight of the bottle, both physical and emotional, felt immense. His jaw tightened as he wrestled with his thoughts before finally unscrewing the cap and taking a deep swig. The burn was sharp, but he welcomed it, hoping it would dull the worry clawing at his chest.

He took another pull, then one more, before capping the bottle and tucking it under his own bed. Sitting down heavily on the edge, Fred raked his hands through his hair, his mind spinning like the liquid in the bottle.

"Don't know what's gotten into him," Fred said finally, his voice quiet but tense. His gaze was fixed on the floorboards, the usual spark of mischief in his eyes replaced by a deep unease. "He's never lost it like this. Not George. Not like this."

Lee, leaning against the wall, crossed his arms and exhaled slowly. "I've never seen him like this either, mate. He's always been... I dunno, the steady one between you two, yeah?"

Fred nodded, his hands clenching into fists. "Exactly. He's the one who keeps me from going too far, not the other way 'round. But now..." He shook his head, his words trailing off as he looked over at George, who was sprawled out on his bed, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

Fred sat there in silence for a moment, his head in his hands, before looking up at Lee. His voice was low and hesitant when he finally spoke.

"Do you think he meant it?"

Lee, who had been staring thoughtfully at George's sleeping form, frowned and turned toward Fred. "Meant what?"

Fred exhaled slowly, leaning back against the bedpost. "What he said. About living in my shadow. About me always being the one in control." His fingers fidgeted with a loose thread on his pajama sleeve. "I mean, I know we have our differences, but I never thought... I never thought he felt that way."

Lee leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Fred, it's hard to say. George was completely out of it tonight — high as a kite and angry as hell. He could've just been blowing off steam."

Fred's jaw tightened. "But what if he wasn't? What if he's felt that way for years and just never said anything?" He shook his head, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. "Maybe I've been too full of myself to notice. Always dragging him into whatever madness I come up with, assuming he's fine with it. Hell, maybe he's not fine. Maybe he's never been fine."

Lee studied Fred for a moment, his face serious. "Look, mate. I don't think George resents you. But... maybe there's a part of him that feels like he's always the second act. You're the loud one, the planner, the one who gets everyone's attention. George? He's quieter. But you've always been a team, Fred. He knows that. You know that."

Fred ran a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt warring in his expression. "A team... yeah. But maybe I've made him feel like he's just my sidekick." His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "I never wanted that. Never."

Lee sighed, leaning back in his chair. "The only way to know for sure is to talk to him. When he's not out of his head, obviously. You're his twin, Fred. If he's got something to say, he'll say it. You just gotta give him the space to do it."

Fred nodded slowly, though his chest still felt tight. "Yeah... yeah, I guess you're right." He glanced over at George again, the faint sound of his uneven breathing filling the room. "I just hate seeing him like this, Lee. He's my brother. My best friend. And if I've done anything to make him feel like he's less than that..."

Lee placed a hand on Fred's shoulder, squeezing gently. "You'll figure it out. You always do. Just give him time."

Fred nodded again, though his mind was still swirling with doubt. Time. He just hoped George would let him in before it was too late.

This was about more than just Olympia. There was something more going on with George. Fred just wished he knew what.