Daisee Chain CELERITER VADENDUM, ACRITER SAGITTANDUM

CHAPTER ONE



The explosion shook Diagon Alley. Witches and wizards going about their daily chores were momentarily thrown off their stride as the ground rattled beneath them. Every owl in the town hooted excitedly, and the carved stone gargoyles snarled and howled. The shopkeepers kept on about their business with nary a glance toward the source of the ruckus.

"Still happenin', I see," noted Hagrid.

Penelope poured him a firewhiskey and handed it over the bar. "Hasn't stopped. Day and night for two weeks now. But we think they're getting closer to solvin' the problem. There's fewer explosions and they're further apart now."

"Hope they fix it soon."

"So do I, Hagrid. So do I." She moved off to serve another customer.

"All that racket just to make some sweeties." Hagrid shook his head sadly and downed his alcohol.







"Well," said George, attempting to wipe gunge out of his eyes, "that's one way not to do it, I suppose."

Fred was busy pulling the mess, which was rapidly turning sticky, out of his bright red hair. The hot pink goo did not compliment his colouring at all.

"Snibbets. Snibbets, where are you? I can't see."

A shrivelled house elf appeared at George's elbow.

"I am here, Master Weasley." It was pulling hot pink strings of candy out of its right ear and shaking its head sadly. "Was the experiment successful?"

"No," said George, "it was not."

"Oh I don't know," said Fred, "we can now say we know at least 73 ways not to make Balloon bubblegum."

"Yeah. And tomorrow we're going to try number 74."

George sighed, shrugged off his asbestos apron and threw it onto a congealed heap of previously ruined aprons. They had stopped trying to clean them after the first week. Even Snibbets couldn't remove the mess.

The workshop, if you could call it that, might have once had stained wooden walls, a lime plaster roof, and bleached wooden flooring. Over the centuries, these had been darkened by smoke to give an almost silver-black patina, and the little light afforded by the small lead-lined windows had been so reduced that even a hundred candles struggled to provide illumination. The many candles just added to the smoke dust on the windows, and so the vicious cycle continued.

More recently an entirely new layer of shading had been added to the room. A muggle real estate agent might be tempted to call it retro-70's chic. Anyone else would call it ghastly and be completely accurate.

Underneath the newly acquired hot pink string effect, were a splatter of puke green, swirls of duck egg blue, huge spots of acid yellow, and several plops of brown, the exact shade of which most visitors would be unable to name, but which they would be unlikely to want to touch.

Fred walked slowly over to the cauldron that had previously been filled with Top Secret Number 73. His boots sticking to the surface slowed his progress across the floor. George looked up when the absence of sucking sounds indicated Fred had made it all the way to the pot. Fred was cautiously peering inside it, attempting to scrape some of the remains off the sides with a large paddle.

"I think maybe the previous experiments are interfering with the new ones," he called out to George.

"You mean you think we should clean the cauldron."

"Yeah."

George sighed. "Well that'll set us back a week. I think we should invest in another cauldron. So we can keep one cooking while the other one gets cleaned."

"Good thinking, that man," said Fred.

"And since I'm clearly the ideas man round here, that means you're the go getter. So go get," George said.

"Righto then."

"And no sneaking off to Honeydukes for more fizzing whizbees. You're not to go spending profits on our competition," he added.

Fred paused in his attempt to make it to the door, the gleam fading from his eyes. "Nuts. Sometimes it doesn't pay to be a twin."




"I just don't get it."

"Neither do I. It should be working. "

"Well it's not, George. Fat lot of good Ever Open Eyes are going to do us if students explode when they use them."

Not to mention what Mum'll say, Fred."

They both shuddered.

"Let's try another batch then, shall we?"

"Okay. Do we need more or less of the lavender this time?"

"Do those notes you swiped from Snape have anything to say on the subject?"

Fred flipped through a thick stack of aging velum that had been bound in a black lambskin sheaf binding. Snape had always intimated his rooms were the best protected in the school, theoretically making them the best protected in the world, being that they were located in the most heavily protected of all Wizard buildings. George and Fred had used those rooms as warm up practice for their more daring raids, details of which would probably turn their father's hair white overnight.

"Nothing. Reading through these you'd think he never had it in for his students. There ought to be a least one reference to antidotes, after all the times he tried to poison us."

"I'm not sure that was deliberate."

"'Course it was. Old beak-nose always knew exactly what he was doing. You can't tell me that incident with the putrefying tar was accidental."

"S'pose not. Still doesn't help us with this though." George prodded the latest concoction with a stick. It wobbled at him. "More, I think."

"Okay. Shall we make it five drops more essence of Lavender? Then if it's too much we can bring it back down on the batch after."

"Right you are, then. Snibbets!"

A slight whiff of gunpowder announced the apparition of Snibbets next to the cauldron.

"You bellowed?" he asked dryly.

George blinked. "Bellowed? I never bellow."

"Assert forcefully, perhaps," said Fred.

"Masterfully command, also," said George.

"Persistently insist."

"But never," George paused to peer at Snibbets, "bellow."

"My apologies Masters. You asserted forcefully?"

"Bring the ingredients back up. We're going to try it again. More lavender essence this time please."

Snibbets nodded his head, and popped out of existence, to reappear, George sincerely hoped, in the storeroom, which was actually in another building, the basement in fact, of the Leaky Cauldron. This was because their own workshop was far too explosive to be keeping supplies in, and because there were no other free floors in this building. George liked the Leaky Cauldron a lot. He particularly liked their butterbeer, and for that reason he sincerely hoped the proprietors never found his and Fred's illicit stash of goods behind the ogre blood. He'd hate to have to start drinking at the Stagnant Pond.

The thing in the cauldron glooped again, this time of its own accord.

"Think we might have to placate it, Fred."

Fred nodded sagely while still looking through the stolen papers. "Try grated wormwood."

"Why grated?"

"No idea. Just wanted to sound like I knew what I was doing." He grinned at George.

"Hmph. I think maybe the reason..." George started, but Fred never found out the reason because they were both startled by yelling coming from outside the room.

"Open up in the name of the Ministry!"

"Er, which Ministry would that be?" Fred asked.

There were the hushed noises of people conferring quietly outside in the hall. Fred and George exchanged looks. The pot glooped. Then it glooped again. George glanced back at it.

"The Ministry of Magic!" said the disembodied voice. "That's what Ministry! Now open up this bloody door."

"It's not locked you know," said George reasonably.

Silence crept embarrassedly into the room, followed somewhat hesitantly by five large and loutish looking wizards in Ministry attire and a wiry man with dishwater hair. This man was carrying a portfolio.

"I have a cease and desist order here from the Ministry. You are to stop what you are doing at once, and hand all magical and non-magical items that might be used in activities detrimental to the public good to the duly authorized representatives of the Ministry. That's me and the lads here, in case you were wondering."

"Why?" asked George.

"Why not?" asked the Ministry man.

"You can't do this!"

"Yes I can."

"No you can't!"

"Yes I can!"

"Oh no you can't!"

"Oh yes I c...' The duly authorized Ministry Representative shook his head and blinked. "I am not playing this stupid game. You!" He pointed at Fred, who was wrestling with one of the men for possession of a box of ton tongue toffees."Stop that immediately and let him have it."

"Let him have it?"

"That's what I said."

"Righto then.' Fred let the box go, and the Ministry goon stumbled backward into one of his colleagues, who was unsuccessfully trying to lift cement grade chewing gum off the shelf. They both went down in a heap on the floor.

The Duly Authorised Ministry Representative closed his eyes and tapped his foot. He breathed the breath of infinite patience. The twins knew that sound well. They looked at each other. One escape route was blocked. That left disparating as their only other exit.

"You can't disparate, if that's what you were thinking," said Ministry man to the now slack jawed twins. "We've surrounded the building with an anti-escape charm."

"Why?" growled Fred.

"We've played that already," said Ministry man, as his thugs went on shrinking and packing equipment from around the room.

"Why are you doing this?" asked George. "We can't run our business without our goods."

"Should have thought of that before you dodged your taxes." Ministry man smirked.

Fred and George gaped simultaneously. "Who are you?"

"Alfred Merton. Understudy to the Undersecretary to the Personal Assistant to the Chancellor of the Wizarding Exchequer. "

George went white. "Irretrievable Revenue Division."

"That's right." Merton confirmed with a little nod of his head. "By order of the Department of Mysteries, you, as they say in the Muggle world, are "nicked". He smiled smugly and held his wand out.

"Why the Department of Mysteries?" George asked, curiously.

"Do you understand your taxes?" leered Merton.

"No..."

"There you go then."

"I'm not sure they do, you know," said Fred, who'd been chewing thoughtfully on his lip.

Merton looked confused. "Who doesn't do what?"

"Say "nicked"," said Fred helpfully.

George nodded agreement. "I'm sure it's just something they used to say on the jellyvision. Something made up."

"For effect."

"Dramatics," added George.

Merton scowled. "Shut up."

"And anyway, you can't arrest us," said Fred. "You haven't got an authorization for our arrest..."

"... Just our possessions," said George.

Merton waved his wand hand threateningly. "Doesn't matter. The point is to teach you two malcontents a lesson in proper business management. If you want a proper business, we have to manage you. Now hand over that cauldron."

"I don't think that's a good idea, really." George still had his hand on the stirring stick and was attempting to pull it out of the pot. The stuff inside really had a good hold on it.

Merton growled menacingly. "I said hand it over, kid."

"I'd really like to, but I don't actually think I can." The experiment had become bored with slurruping and had moved on to roiling. The stirring stick was pulled around slowly with it. George let go and moved back.

"That's better," said Merton. " Now just hand over the cauldron."

"Look I really don't think we should move it just now."

"Smith! Jenkins!" bawled Merton. "Pick up this cauldron!"

Two of the men came over.

The thing inside the cauldron suddenly burped loudly. Everyone froze.

"Er," said George

Fred looked at his brother. "Is it supposed to do that?"

"No."

Everyone backed up a step. The sludge in the cauldron burped much louder. The cauldron began to shake.

"I think..." began George.

"We should run for it?" finished Fred.

"Yup."

"Nobody goes anywhere!"

"Aah. Snibbets should have been here. That was definitely a bellow."

"They might be right, boss," said one of the goon squad.

The pot was now dancing about on its tripod, as if trying to tip out its contents. The strange noises were getting stranger. Everyone in the room, Merton included, was now looking warily at the jigging cookware. They were all also trying to edge as far away from it as possible.

And suddenly...

It stopped.

No one breathed.

They all continued to not breathe for several seconds.

"Just as I thought," said Merton, making several people jump, "a blatant attempt to pervert Ministry justice. Boys, pick it up and take it away."

The lads moved in on the cauldron as Fred and George looked on in despair.







The explosion shattered windows, and roused startled pigeons from the rooftops, much to the ire of the pedestrians who were going about their shopping on a fine day.

In the Leaky Cauldron, Hagrid wiped the firewhiskey from his robes.

"Same again, love. And a napkin if you 'ave one." Then he leant over and helped an elderly wizard back on to his barstool.

CHAPTER TWO


"T'riffic."

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

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

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

"Absolutely fanbloodytastic," muttered Fred.

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

"Unbelievable. Un-fuc..."

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

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

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

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

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


"My name is Snibbets, sir."

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

"Then we go home?" Fred suggested gently.

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

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

"No. No I don't."

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

Scrolls no one would see.

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

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

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

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

"Never, George. That's when."

"And are we about to start now?"

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

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

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

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

A light flared in the dank space. It threw ghostly-green flickering shadows on Fred's face. Mostly it illuminated his nose, which George didn't feel helped them find their quarry.

"You might want to try holding the light in front of you. That way we might get to see where we're going," he whispered.

"You want it done your way, you do it," Fred snapped at him.

George rolled his eyes. Fred could be a bit waspish when they were on a mission. He never failed to take a suggestion personally. It was nerves really. They were both on edge down here.

They were standing against an old oak scrollcase. George risked a quick peek round the side of it. He couldn't see anyone. He checked the map. The dots moving round on the parchment made him smile as they brought back memories of good times during night raids at Hogwarts. Snibbets had been suspiciously willing to assist in producing a new map of their current location, for which they were both immensely grateful. They couldn't have done it without his help. Briefly, George wondered what grudge Snibbets had against the Ministry, apart from the obvious matter of having deprived him of employment, but set that thought aside to concentrate on the matter at hand. Beside him, he felt rather than saw Fred smile, and knew he was thinking the same thing.

The cellar they were in showed no signs of occupancy. The nearest other living soul was on the next floor up. He wasn't sure if this building had ghosts. He probably should have considered it earlier when they created the map. They were bound to have a few floating round here, what with all the ill feelings it aroused, but there was very little he could do about it now. They were just going to have to hope they didn't run in to any resident dearly departed, or that if they did, the ghost would be willing to turn a blind eye, as it were.

"We're on." George nodded for Fred to move out, and Fred stepped slowly and carefully toward their goal. George followed his footsteps, taking care to move in the same pattern across the flagstones. His slippered left foot slid slightly on the damp surface as he stepped outward and he froze. One wrong step down here would bring the whole Ministry down on them. Fred glanced back at him to see what was up. George nodded at him to continue. Fred moved cautiously on.

They continued moving carefully in a demented dance pattern across the cellar till they found themselves face to face with the largest filing cabinet either of them had ever seen. It stretched from floor to, well, somewhere near where George guessed a ceiling should be. Not that he could see a ceiling. He just hoped they weren't going to have to climb the cabinet. He'd never guessed they might need hardhats and crampons for this job.

The cabinet stretched in either direction till it vanished in the gloom. He looked at the label on the drawer directly in front of him. Bart - Bartholomew. The one on his left was Babbage - Babby. The one above him was Bard - Bardale.

That meant they had to go to the right, and hope the drawer they wanted was somewhere near ground level. He tugged on Fred's sleeve and pointed. Fred nodded and led the way.

They crept silently on, stopping every now and then for a rest, and the occasional shared chocolate bar. Nearly two hours had passed when Fred put his arm out behind him and motioned for George to stop. Fred was peering closely at the cabinet drawers. He found the one he was looking for and whispered a spell that held the illumination charm in place, hovering just above their heads.

"This is our column."

George checked. Sadly, it looked like they were going to have to exert themselves after all. The drawer with their paperwork in it was probably about half way up. They hadn't brought their brooms with them - too bulky and noisy for an indoor raid. That had been an early Hogwarts lesson. Not quite the one that McGonagall had meant for them to learn, he was sure, but hard learned all the same.

Hovering spells were out of the question. Any unauthorized floatation bigger than a candle was likely to trigger the automatic alarms. And they couldn't just accio the scrolls either. The drawers had safety mechanisms on them specifically to prevent just such attempts.

They looked at each other. Fred's hand delved into his pocket and came out a moment later with a chocolate coin.

"Heads," said Fred, who flipped the coin, and deftly caught it as it descended, slapping it onto the back of his other hand. When he revealed the coin's face it was clearly 'tails'. He sighed. "You owe me."

George moved back to give Fred a little more room. Fred placed his still lit wand between his teeth and reached up to put his hand on the handle of the drawer above him. Then his left foot on the bottom-most drawer to his left, then his left arm stretched to reach the handle up to the left. Slowly and surely he hauled himself up.

George's heart worked faster. He stopped watching Fred and peered into the shadows of the cellar. A small shiver ran up his spine. This was the part of any mission he loved most. They hadn't quite reached their goal but they were so close he could feel the victory. And he also knew it could be taken away in a second. It was delicious and toxic, that explosive taste of danger and triumph, like gunpowder chocolate.

Bill had once suggested, after a particularly vicious game of Quidditch had landed them both in the infirmary, that the twins were addicted to danger. George had strenuously denied the accusation. Mostly on the grounds that it was Bill who was levelling the charge, and it was a teenage boy's duty to disagree with his brother, unless that brother was Fred.

Yet here he was orchestrating an illegal midnight raid on the third most heavily secured building in Wizarding Britain. Maybe, just maybe, Bill had a point.

A muffled curse from above made him jerk his head up. Fred was hanging off the cabinet by one hand. George's heart skipped a beat. It was one hell of a long way down from there.

"Hang on, hang on," he murmured, but Fred couldn't hear him.

"Left foot. There's a handle right by your left foot," George thought at Fred, but for once the psychic twin thing didn't seem to be working for them. George felt the prickle of sweat starting against his shirt. His hands felt clammy and he couldn't breathe.

Fred found his foothold.

They both paused for a moment, Fred catching his breath, and George offering up prayers of thanks to whatever deities might be handy. He closed his eyes, and swallowed the large lump that had lodged itself in his throat.

He opened his eyes again, just in time to see Fred plunge into freefall.

Hours passed with Fred frozen above him. George couldn't feel his own pulse. His throat had closed over. Breathing was impossible. It would never happen again if Fred weren't there. For one of them to breathe out, the other had to breathe in. That was the way the world worked. George didn't exist without Fred. Fred was his satellite orbit, half of his being.

Fred was falling.

With the world turning to syrup around him, George saw with astonishment that someone was holding out his wand and pointing it at his brother. For a split second he heard someone yelling,

"Wingardium Leviosa!",

then realized he himself was screaming the words. Pain flared through his knees as he fell gasping to the stone floor, and stared bug eyed at Fred who was now floating upside down a few feet off the ground, blinking, cloak flapping around his head.

"Thanks, George." Fred's voice was hard to hear. "You ok?"

George opened and closed his mouth a few times. Then, just as suddenly as it had left, the rest of the world came back. Air came rushing into his lungs, cracking open his frozen self at the seams. His thoughts came into focus and he realized that Fred was hard to hear because of the siren roaring its intruder warning. The sharp pain in his back wasn't part of the aftershock; it was the pointed end of a wand. The extra feet in his peripheral vision most likely belonged to Ministry security guards, no doubt called by the alarm he'd just cleverly triggered.

He expected that one day he would probably look back on all this and laugh. He expected that any minute now he'd remember which part of his audacious plan this was, and how it involved being yanked off the floor to face down a security guard who'd obviously been crossed with a Norwegian Ridgeback. He thought he might even recall the brilliant and daring escape plan he'd come up with for just this situation.

Or, he might just throw up.

And so he did.

Pity, thought George through the haze. That looked like it had been quite a nice uniform robe.

"Elves revolting."

"They always have been. Next!"

"Newt shortage in North East."

"What are we, a wildlife club? Next."

"Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Chief fired over family row."

"Eh? Now that's a better headline. What's it about?"

Around the large oak table, the assembled journalists of the Daily Prophet paused in their endeavours and waited as lead reporter Neil Pratt threw his notebook on the table. "Arthur Weasley's been fired. Some furore over his twin sons' joke shop business, the one down the alley. Seems they couldn't be bothered filing their tax returns."

"Can't say I blame 'em," said Eriksson. "Have you seen the scrollwork required for a business these days?"

Editor-in-Chief and self-proclaimed hard-ass, not that anyone in the office wanted to investigate that, Michael Penn, gulped his morning coffee, wincing as it burned a path down his gullet. "So? Everyone else in business has to file them."

"But they don't, do they?" asked Eriksson. "When was the last time our office filed an IR32000? The Ministry hasn't repealed a single tax law since 1247. No one fills the damn things in anymore. They're a joke."

"Maybe," said Pratt, "but these kids still got done, and it caused enough of a stink at the Ministry to get their father fired. I really think we could run with this one. They flaunted the law, so that makes them criminals. Their father worked at the Ministry, which makes him potentially newsworthy on his own, and he's already been in trouble with the Ministry several times before."

On hearing this, a tray of lead linotype on a sideboard rearranged itself into a headline, and squeaked out, "Ministry maverick protects juvenile delinquent sons!"

"Has he?"

Pratt checked his notes. "No. As far as I know, the first he heard about it was when he got hauled over the coals in his bosses' office."

"Still, doesn't say much for his parenting skills does it? If he keeps getting into trouble in his own work, how's he going to teach them to be responsible businessmen?"

The metal letters in the tray rearranged themselves, and sang out, "Delinquent dad abuses Ministry position of power!"

Eriksson looked troubled. "I'm not sure about that. Weasley himself didn't do anything out of line did he? It was his sons."

Pratt yawned. "They're still living at his house. That makes them his responsibility."

Hislop, who had been mostly flicking disinterestedly through the Quibbler till that point, said, "The twins hang out with Potter a lot."

The rest of the team stopped pretending to pay attention and did it for real. They looked expectantly at him. Harry Potter sold newspapers. Lots and lots of newspapers. They might be able to spin this out for weeks. Hislop continued trawling through the opposition paper for any stories they could appropriate.

"Well?" Penn eventually growled.

Hislop didn't even look up. "Well, if we point that out in the sub-heading it's bound to get attention, isn't it."

"Boy Who Lived fraternizing with juvenile delinquents!"

"Makes it sound like the story's about him though," said Pratt.

Penn gulped down more of his liquid breakfast. "Can we make it about him?"

"We can beef up the details of their friendship, point out that Arthur's become a de facto father to him, but that's about it. It's really the Weasley twins who're the focus of the story."

"Delinquent twins ruin Ministry Father; bring shame on Boy Who Lived!"

Penn nodded. "That's our lead then, people. Have it on my desk by 4pm, Pratt. I want this out in the early edition. And Hislop?"

"Yeah?"

"See if you can't find me a decent murder or conspiracy by tomorrow. Another week of this and no one will be reading us."

Hislop grinned. "Sure. They'll all be too anxious to read about crumple-horned snack socks."

Penn snorted, and left Hislop to his reading.

There it was again. That sick feeling, like wanting to throw up. He felt as though someone had been scraping glass over his skin, his nerves were so raw. How could he not have realized what would happen if they were found out? He couldn't see that many canary creams in their future now, just a whole lot of prison time.

He looked over at Fred, who hadn't moved in hours, though the effects of the combined paralyzing spell used on them by the guards, and his own floatation spell had long since worn off. He was a little scared. Ok, he was a lot scared. Rotting in a cell for his own misdemeanours was, well, not acceptable, but he was prepared for that consequence. But he'd never thought what this might mean for Fred. Fred had trusted him to get them both through this fiasco, and instead he had only dug them in deeper. So deep, they might never get out. What if Fred never moved again? He'd done nothing but stare at the lichen-covered ceiling since they'd been brought here, his range of movement limited to blinking.

The clanking of a door in the distance drew his thoughts from Fred. He could hear voices and one of them was... Oh shit. And he'd thought this day couldn't possibly get any worse.

Three people walked up to the bars of his cell. One of them looked at George with disinterest, as if he were some form of insect on a window. The other two were unusually bedraggled.

There were going to be fireworks. There was no avoiding them now, so it was probably best just to get it over and done with. "Hi Mum."

"GEORGE WEASLEY! WHAT ON EARTH DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING? I THOUGHT... I THOUGHT I HAD HEARD THE WORST FROM RON WITH THAT FLYING CAR, BUT THIS! YOU... YOU..." Molly broke down sobbing, clutching at Arthur's robe.

Arthur, obviously torn between comforting Molly and berating George, settled on an expression that made him look bewildered.

George tried not to laugh. Maybe he was a little hysterical himself right now. He said the only thing he could say. "Sorry."

"Sorry isn't good enough this time, son." His father's voice was so melancholy George would have preferred to be dealing with Snape. "I'm not sure we can help you out. I think you might have gone too far."

If there was a lower place to go to, George hadn't heard about it. His father hadn't even seemed this defeated when Ginny had been kidnapped. But then, it hadn't been one of his own children turning against him. The part of George's mind that was always alert and hatching schemes noted that this must be what it's like to give up completely. He'd never felt this before.

Molly, still shaking, turned toward George. "Why?"

And George couldn't think of a single good reason. He could give her the excuse he and Fred had told themselves, that sneaking in and planting their tax returns would be quicker and easier than paying off the penalties for the rest of their lives, but from the perspective of a damp stone cell, that didn't seem to make sense anymore. He couldn't just say 'It seemed like a good idea at the time', but there was the truth of it, so he held his silence.

They stared at each other. Eventually the prison escort became bored, and indicated to Mr and Mrs Weasley that it was time to leave. Arthur nodded his head in acknowledgement, and hesitantly looked down at Molly who was still clutching his cardigan. He gently ushered her to the exit, sparing only the briefest of glances for George.

And then they were alone again.

George looked over at Fred. He still wasn't moving, was so still, in fact, that he might be trying to merge with the wall. George sat back against the wall, feeling the cold stone slabs leach the heat from his back. Then, doing what he now understood should have been done to him many years ago, he deliberately rapped his head against the wall.

The patrons of the Leaky Cauldron sat nursing their beers. Though it had been a few days since the last explosion rattled the premises, you could never tell when the next might be, so, understandably, they clutched their tankards rather tighter than was strictly necessary.

News travels fast in a small community, and there was none so small and closed as the Wizarding world of Britain. The queue for owl hire was unbelievable, and there wasn't a spare fireplace to be had in all of Diagon Alley, as word of the Weasley twins' arrest gathered pace. Before long, it was the only conversation to be had. Copies of The Daily Prophet were sold out. Danny, the newspaper boy, had retired early for the day, and treated himself to a butterbeer or three. He was swaying slightly in the tavern right now, recounting the tale to those who hadn't been quick enough with their knuts, much to the chagrin of those who had actually bought what could now be heard for free.

"'S true! Fred and George been locked up on account of cheating on their taxes! Now, I knew these guys from school like, not well mind, but we nattered now and then, and they're decent sorts. Hate authority, 'strue, but not bad fellows, not like others that could be mentioned. They stand up for those what gets done over, and help out those what need a hand. 'stotally unaccetib... unakteb... wrong what's been done to 'em! Wrong!"

General rhubarb murmurings were punctuated with loud disclaimers of the twins' guilt. Why if they were guilty, so was everyone here! The rhubarb quietened down a bit at that, and a few in the crowd looked a bit shifty. But when Aurors failed to apparate and arrest anyone, those gathered became loudly indignant again.

"He's right," said Pete. "Something needs to be done."

"Yeah," agreed Penelope, "but what? We won't get them out by complaining about it, will we?"

There was general scratching of heads at this.

"Prison break!" yelled old Light-fingered Leon from the corner. Somebody threw a half-eaten bread roll at him.

"Don't be daft! Nobody'll get within three feet of them."

"Just a suggestion." Leon sulked into his firewhiskey.

"'Plainin might help, you know," slurred Danny.

"How's that then?"

"Well, there was this time, not long after I started selling the papers, that Mary Suzenak, got arrested, and lots of people wrote to the papers and started 'plaining, and the papers started complainin' to the Ministry, and the Ministry decided that it wasn't worth the effort, and let her go." He nodded wisely, but the effect was slightly ruined by his head wobbling as the butterbeer got its revenge.

Penelope nodded. "I remember that. Might be worth a try. If we can get a howler campaign going, the Ministry might reconsider."

"They'd need a lot of persuasion..."

"Well, we'd best not waste any time then. Everybody spread the word. Convince as many people as you can to write to both the Ministry and The Daily Prophet. Point out that if it's the Weasley twins today, it could be any of us tomorrow."

There was general lethargy all round. Penelope rolled her eyes. "Tell them it could be me next, and that'd mean you'd all have to go drink at The Stagnant Pond."

It was the fastest Penelope had ever managed to clear the tavern. The only person left was Danny, who was now snoring gently into a pool of his own drool on the floor.

Penelope sighed, stepped over him, and went to find her quill.

Owls to the left of him, owls to the right of him, and no place left to sit. They were standing on his desk, perched on the back of his chair, and lined up along the mantelpiece. Penn stood glaring at them from the doorway.

"Suzan! Suzan!"

His secretary entered, windmilling her arms to shoo more owls out of the way. "Yes, Sir?"

"What is going on? Since when have we been running a rescue operation for homeless owls?" He batted away something small and excitable.

"It's the scroll campaign, Sir. We're paying them off as fast as we can, but we ran out of petty cash an hour ago, and Gringotts is shut for the lunch break. We have to wait till it opens again before we can send them away."

"Which scroll campaign?"

"To free the Weasley twins, Sir. You were sent a memo about it this morning."

"Eh? Was at my club this morning. Never got it."

"Someone's started a campaign to get the Weasley twins out of jail, Sir, and they're pretty upset with us too. They seem to feel we've been unfairly dragging the family through the mud. Scrolls have been arriving since yesterday. Most of them are howlers. We've had to start opening them in the basement. Poor Ernie's going deaf trying to get them all open."

Penn flinched as a trio of owls hurtled toward them from the corridor. "Well, get these ones out of here. I can't work with that lot taking up my desk."

"I'm sorry, Sir, but every other available space in the building except the meeting room has been taken over. We've managed to keep that free, but I don't know how much longer we can keep them out of there."

"Every available space, you say?"

"Yes, Sir."

Penn frowned, then glared, then frowned again. "Right. Right." He glared once more at the offending owls to be sure they understood he was not best pleased, then stomped off to the meeting room. "Get the reporting staff together. Emergency conference right now!"

"Yes, Sir." Suzan replied and hurried off to find the journalists, pausing only to wipe guano off her shoe.





"By the beard of the prophets, what an unholy mess this is."

"Have you ever wondered why being unholy should make a mess seem worse?"

Penn and Pratt just glared at Hislop. Then Pratt turned to Penn.

"If we keep pushing this, we'll ruin the paper."

"Do you think I don't know that? You broke this story. How are you going to fix it?"

Pratt clamped his mouth shut. He seemed to be struggling with something in his head for a minute, then very slowly and clearly spoke. "We could try backing up the twins instead."

"Doing an about face on our position?" asked Penn.

"Yeah, tell the public that the Ministry was wrong for trying to impose such ancient brain dead laws on two naive young lads trying to get an even break."

"Out of the question. We are a respectable newspaper. We tell the truth, we don't make it."

There was dead silence as everyone in the room stared at Penn.

Eventually Hislop spoke up. "You mean like the time we told everyone that Potter was a nutcase out for his own publicity when we knew there was Ministry evidence that You Know Who had returned."

"That was..." Penn began.

"Or the time we insinuated that Dumbledore had lost his marbles and needed to be removed from all his offices?" asked junior reporter Todd.

"That's hardly..." Penn tried but was once again interrupted.

"Or the time that ..."

"Yes alright!" Penn was red in the face.

"Penn, you know we can't continue down this track. Our readers have been exceedingly clear that they aren't impressed with us. Either we lose face and change our position, or we lose our readers. Which would you rather?"

Penn's face continued to get redder. His fists clenched. Pratt stood his ground. The staff watched with interest. Money was riding on the outcome.

Finally Penn let out a breath. It whooshed out of him and all the tension he'd been building up just seemed to evaporate. "Fine. Do it. Come up with something that supports the Weasleys' activists and supporters but doesn't make us look like a bunch of brain dead idiots."

Hislop cocked his head. "Isn't it a little late for that?"

"Have it on my desk by 2pm!" bawled Penn, then he turned and stomped out of the room.

The rest of the experienced team of reporters remained at the conference desk, fidgeting slightly. None of them looked at the others.

Pratt addressed the ceiling. "Well, that went well."

"Yeah," said Hislop. "Now we just have to turn the tide of public opinion in our favour, get the sales up to record levels, fend off the inevitable Ministry backlash, make sure we don't get caught in the middle of any of it, and Bob's your uncle, we should all be able to hold onto our jobs."

Pratt grimaced. "That's okay then. Should be able to do that by deadline. No problem."

George looked up at the clanging of the dungeon door. The warden strode in, closely tailed by a new wizard who was wearing sharp robes, of what looked to be very fine grade wool, with a thin pinstripe decoration. His shoes were fine purple leather, and he was carrying a dragon hide scroll case, but what really caught George's attention was the wig: old, white, powdered, and made of warthog bristles, it was that most feared of symbols, the badge of a very expensive solicitor.

George glanced over at Fred, who was scowling at the new man, but otherwise remained still, and then looked back at the visitor. They stared through the bars at each other for a few moments.

After some time, the guard coughed.

"Yes, thank you. Leave us."

The guard looked startled. "Now look here, you can't just..."

"Expect to be left alone with two young criminals? No, of course not." While the solicitor was saying this, he palmed some gold galleons to the guard, who looked at them sitting in his hand as if they might suddenly explode.

"You have somewhere you have to be? Is that correct?" asked the solicitor, in a tone George had last heard come from Snape. As if his nerves hadn't had enough punishment already.

The guard vacillated between glaring at the boys, and being astonished at the money in his hand. The solicitor waited patiently. George and Fred watched carefully.

The guard came to a decision. "Right you are then. I need to pop off to the restroom. Generally takes about 15 minutes. No leaving before then." He started to leave, before swinging back toward the twins and adding, "Especially you two." before resuming his march to the exit.

Nothing was said till the door clanged shut. "Naturally two such... inquisitive boys as yourselves are pondering the possibilities inherent in my attendance."

"Yeah, we were wondering what you were doing here," said Fred, who was finally showing signs of life.

"I have been asked to act as a liaison between yourselves and certain interested parties."

"Always happy to attend an interesting party," George said. "Got any fire whiskey?"

Their visitor's face darkened slightly. "I did not mean to imply there would be any celebration."

George leaned against the bars. "Might be. If you get us off."

"Too old. Not my type." said Fred. They both snickered, and George felt somehow lighter. It seemed Fred had decided to forgive him.

"Very well. As you are clearly more interested in languishing in these cells than ever walking free in daylight again, I shall take my leave of you." The lawyer turned and began to stride away.

George sucked in his breath. "WAIT!"

The solicitor paused, but didn't turn. "Yes?"

George looked over at Fred, and by mutual unspoken consent, babbled out an apology. "Who's our benefactor?" he asked.

"The Daily Prophet."

Fred gaped. "You what?"

George tried to wrap his head around the concept. He failed completely. "The Daily Prophet?" he repeated slowly.

"As I said."

The solicitor waited, and George suspected that he and Fred were meant to be adding something to the dialogue, but he was coming up painfully short.

When it became obvious that neither twin had anything to say, the solicitor decided to provoke some conversation. "The Daily Prophet wishes to help you resolve your current... dilemma. It is their desire to see the laws on tax returns brought up to date, and your case provides a focus for public attention."

Fred cut to the heart of the matter. "You mean they messed up and they want to use us to fix their image problem."

"What's in it for us?"

"Release from jail, the return of your business chattels, pardon of all charges, and of course, limitless publicity for your business."

George whistled. Limitless publicity. There had to be a catch there somewhere. "And what do we have to do to get all this help?"

"Simply grant the newspaper exclusive rights to any interviews."

Fred raised an eyebrow. "Any interviews about Harry, right?"

"That is correct. Any information you have to share about Mr. Potter will from now on be the exclusive domain of The Daily Prophet, as will any interviews granted by Mr. Potter himself. "

Ah. That was one hell of catch. And of course they couldn't possibly agree without...

"You will of course wish to speak with Mr. Potter himself regarding the arrangement," said their solicitor.

Funny that, thought George, how he was already thinking of the man as 'their' lawyer'.

"Yes," they both answered.

The door to the holding cells opened with more noise than was necessary, the guard arrived, peered suspiciously at all three of them to make sure they were all really still there, then he escorted their solicitor from the building.

"Interesting," said George.

"I thought so," said Fred.

"Guess all we can do now is wait for Harry."

"Guess so."

There was silence for a minute.

Eventually Fred said, "Want to play 'I Spy'?"

"Wotcha, Harry!"

"Hey, Fred. Hey, George." Harry summoned a chair from the guards room, and sat facing the cell.

"So how's school then?" asked George, plastering on a grin he really didn't feel. "Bet it's dead boring without us there to show you young 'uns the way."

"Yeah," said Fred, prodding at his congealing prison lunch. "Do they need us to come back and give lectures on keeping up morale?"

Harry grinned and pushed his hair away from his eyes. "Oh, I think we do all right, you know."

Fred's eyes widened. "What's happening now? Is ickle Harry having yet another adventure? What is this time? The Order giving lessons in advanced subterfuge?"

"No, that can't be it," said George. "That's far too mundane for Harry. After all he's practically graduated that class already."

Harry blushed and sneaked a glance round the prison, but the guard seemed to be preoccupied with the sports section of the Daily Prophet. "Shh! Keep your voice down." In spite of his protest he looked pleased at the compliment. "Look I can't talk about that... sort of thing right now." He looked at his hands, grimaced, and then looked back at them. "Anyway, I don't think you called me all the way down here to talk about school days. But thanks for getting me out of class for the afternoon. How did you do that, by the way?"

Now it was the twins' turn to look shifty.

"Er, yeah, well... 'Fraid we can't really talk about it mate. Orders you know." He put a peculiar emphasis on the word 'Orders', and hoped Harry wouldn't pry too much. He had no idea how their lawyer had managed to get Harry the afternoon off school, and had no intention of asking.

Harry blinked. "Oh well. Thanks anyway. Nothing worse than being stuck in that damp cellar with Snape on the prowl." He looked over their shoulders at the contents of their cell, and the damp, stone, walls. "Er, well, er, you know."

"It's OK. We know what you mean."

They sat for a minute in companionable silence. Eventually Fed and George both started talking at once.

"There's been a few..." said George.

"It's just that we hadn't..." said Fred.

They both stopped.

At Harry's raised eyebrow, George tried again. "We've run into a few problems. With the shop."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

Fred grimaced. "Yeah, well. Um, you see, we kind of didn't..."

"...pay our taxes."

"For how long?"

"Ever," said George.

"But I thought you were doing so well! You turned up to the station at the end of last year in those dragon skin clothes. You're always writing to Ron and telling him how well you're doing and how he can work for you if he doesn't make it as an Auror." Harry eyed them suspiciously. "You weren't lying to him, were you?"

Fred shook his head. "No. No. It's just..."

"We thought the business would be the same outside of school as it was inside. Only with more equipment and less dodging Snape after dark," said George.

"And it isn't?"

George sighed, but it was Fred who answered. "Turns out things don't work quite that way. The thing is, we've been offered a really sweet deal. But once again, we find ourselves turning to you for help. It's a bit..."

"... embarrassing really."

Harry looked blandly at them. "Embarrassing isn't the word I'd choose."

"What word would you use?"

"I don't know. But I'm sure if I asked Hermione she could come up with something that fits."

"Look, Harry, we've been offered a trade. The best solicitor going, to help get the sentence reduced, in exchange for convincing you to give exclusive interviews to the Daily Prophet."

Harry went still, but his face bore resemblance to a gathering storm. "The Daily Prophet," he said.

"Er, yeah."

"In exchange for your freedom?"

"Um, yes."

"I see."

Silence began. It did a few warm ups, stretched, and completed a few laps of the corridor. Harry appeared to have vacated his head for a few minutes. When he came back, he was somehow sadder. George would place good odds that this would be his last favour for them.

"OK."

"OK?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Harry looked away from them, at the long corridor leading to the other cells. "Just... don't screw anything else up. I can't keep bailing you out. I have... other responsibilities besides my friends these days."

George supposed Harry would. It belatedly occurred to him to wonder how many of Harry's other friends kept expecting him to just fix all of their problems. And because Harry was Harry, Gryffindor straight and true, how many times had he ridden to all their rescues? It must get tiring after a while. Judging by the stoop of Harry's shoulders, he was feeling worn down by expectations. Time to be a good friend then. "It's the same no matter who you are, you know."

"Huh?" Harry looked confused.

"We all have to live with everyone's expectations of us."

Harry's eyes narrowed, but he tilted his head, tacitly giving George encouragement to continue.

"Fred and I have to put up with reputation and expectation like you do."

Fred joined in. "That's right. By the time we got to school, both our parents and three of our brothers had already been there."

"Everywhere you go, you get "Oh, you're the son of Arthur"."

"Or Molly's son."

"Or Bill's brother."

"Or Percy's," they said simultaneously, and both grimaced.

Fred warmed to the topic. "By the time you arrive at school, everyone has this idea in their heads of what you're capable of, and what you should be like."

"So you can either kill yourself trying to live up to that..."

"Or say "To hell with that", and go your own way."

"But the one thing you can never do, is be someone you're not." George hoped Fred understood where he was taking this discussion.

"You shouldn't agree to the interviews just because you think you have to live up to your image of saviour of the world," said Fred.

Thank God, Fred had known what he was getting at.

Harry sat back in the chair, long legs sprawling, his face thoughtful. "So, you're telling me it's OK to let you rot in a prison cell?"

Fred shook his head. "No. We're saying we got ourselves into this mess, and it's not fair that you should have to rescue us."

"You've got enough on your plate."

"I have an entire dinner set now." Harry ran his hands through his hair, and looked at his palms, as if they had an answer for him. "Needs a wash." He sighed. "What will you do if I don't grant the interviews?"

George looked at Fred. Fred shrugged. "We take what we're given. We're big boys. Had plenty of detentions from Snape."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "This isn't like detention."

"Yes it is. Only with less Snape and Filch."

Fred was trying to make it easier to say no, so George backed him up. "Look Harry, what we're trying to say, is that you should do what's best for you."

"You do have more responsibility, and we shouldn't have dragged you into this," Fred said.

"Basically, we're trying to say we're sorry."

"We didn't think."

George thought that really he should be the one taking all the blame for this, but he couldn't contradict Fred now they were finally working as a team again.

"No, you obviously didn't." Harry snapped. He sat forward again, suddenly tense, fists clenched. "You think I'd let you stay in this place a minute longer than you had to? After what's happened to my family? After what they did to Sirius?"

George opened his mouth but failed to say anything. He hadn't thought about that, though he was pretty sure their lawyer might have.

Harry continued. "You say you're sorry? Why are you saying it to me? All I have to do is give stupid interviews. I can get through those blindfolded now, even without Hermione coaching me in what to say. But what about your parents? Are you sorry for what you've done to them? Your Father could lose his job!"

Oh. Right. That. "Dad doesn't have then entire Wizarding world looking to him to save them."

"He does a lot more than you realise. And even if he didn't, he's got his entire family to support. If you can't apologise to your Father, what about to Ron? What about to Ginny? How are they going to get through the rest of school, if your Father can't pay for them? Don't you think Ron's been through enough at school already?"

George felt his face heat up. His head seemed to want to hide in his shoulders. He hadn't thought about Ginny or Ron at all.

"You take your family for granted. I don't understand why you do that."

Family. Ah. Harry didn't consider them his friends. He thought of them as family. And they'd just implied he'd let his family rot in custody. No, on second thoughts, that probably wouldn't go down too well with him. George tried again.

"We didn't mean it that way. We just got offered an escape clause, and it seemed like the best way out."

"It's still OK for you to not agree to this Harry."

"They'll burn me at a stake if I leave you here and it comes out that I could have helped! You do realise that, don't you?"

"Yeah. I guess they will." George glanced at the floor and kicked at some non-existent dirt. "We're sorry. We really are. We didn't mean to imply that you'd leave us here, and we didn't mean to drag you in to this in the first place."

"We're sorry that Mum and Dad got hurt, and we're sorry the Daily Prophet is getting its hooks into you."

"It's all such a mess."

Fred got up, paced a bit, eventually settling on leaning sulkily against a wall, which he kicked, just for being there. George frowned as he watched. He really was sorry. He was sorry he'd ever come up with his stupid plan to retaliate against the Ministry. He noticed Harry watching them both, eyes slightly hooded. He looked determined, focused, and slightly scary. Harry stood suddenly, alarming Fred.

"Right then. I'll be off to talk to the Prophet."

George shook his head to clear it. "What?"

"You're both sorry, right?"

"Well, yeah." He was having problems following the conversation.

"Sorry enough not to get caught again?"

George snorted. He didn't think it was by accident that Harry wasn't asking them not to try anything stupid ever again. "I promise that we'll never get caught doing anything like this again."

Harry grinned. "That's what I hoped. I think you've probably learned your lesson." He sobered and continued softly. "Besides, I really can't just leave you at the mercy of the Wizmagot. Who knows what they'll make up to hurt your Dad?"

George's brow furrowed. "The Wizmagot? But we're only up on tax evasion!"

"You didn't know? They bumped you up through the courts." Harry frowned. "Don't you realise that this isn't about what we want anymore. There are people out there who'll do anything, anything to hurt your family, just because you're my friends. They don't care what happens to you."

Dinner set. Right. Harry knew a hell of a lot of people, all of whom were targets. George grimaced and looked away.

Apparently Harry knew them both pretty well. "Yeah. Exactly. Look. I'll do you a deal. I'll do this deal with the Prophet to help you out, if you agree to think twice about the consequences of any more of your bright ideas."

Just slightly hypocritical, George thought. "Pot? Kettle? Black?"

"Black. Yes. Sirius." Harry shot back.

Oh. Damn. He opened his mouth to apologise, but Fred strode back to the bars and bet him to it.

"Ignore my brother. He's as diplomatic as a Swedish Ridgeback. And we promise, we'll be more careful in future."

"Just try guys. That's all I'm asking. The day's going to come when I'll have to ask everyone to repay the favours they owe me. I need as many of my friends still around as I can possibly keep." He nodded, turned on his heel and walked out.

In that moment, George knew he would never again be able to look at Harry and see the pale, skinny kid they'd first met on platform 9. He wasn't sure where the cynical man who'd just left them had come from, but he knew he wouldn't trade places with him for all the knuts in Gringotts.

"Ever get the feeling our problems aren't as bad as we thought?" Fred asked from just behind him, echoing his own thoughts.

"Oh, I reckon they will be when he comes to call in that favour."

They stared after Harry as he took his leave with the guard, then moved around a corner and out of view.

"That's that then."

"Yeah."

For a minute the only noise was from the guard in the waiting room scratching his leg and turning pages. Then Fred said loudly, "I spy, with my little eye..."

Their parents were there. Not that he'd doubted they would be. No. Never, he told himself firmly, even in his direst moments in the cell, had he doubted. He'd been hallucinating obviously. Obviously.

"They came," Fred said, making George jump. It was the first time Fred had spoken directly to him since they'd left the cellar of the IRD.

"You OK?"

"Depends, don't it?" said Fred.

"On?"

"On whether or not they send us to Azkaban."

George's momentary hopefulness shattered on the flagstones. He looked around the room. There were more people here than he'd ho... expected. The entire clan was there, although Percy was there as court scribe, of course. Stupid git. Harry had come, both to support them, and make it obvious to his enemies that he wasn't going to desert anyone. Ron was standing beside Harry, twitchily looking round the room. Harry was just staring at where they stood. He supposed Harry had seen enough of the room the last time he was here. And wherever Harry and Ron went, Hermione was sure to follow, so she was standing beside Ron. It looked suspiciously like she was holding his hand. Huh. Oliver Wood and Lee Jordan were standing behind his parents, looking angrily at the judicial stands.

Others he recognised included Flitwick and Hooch, neither really a surprise. They'd been tacit supporters of the twins' escapades for years. McGonagall and Snape, however, seemed out of place. He assumed they had come to see justice finally served. A smile twisted his face as he contemplated handing the purloined notes back to Snape in front of his colleagues. Which made him wish they had the notes here. They were still stuck in some room full of confiscated equipment.

A chair in the centre of the room caught his eye. Heavy chains dangled from the arms. That would be the chair that Harry had sat in nearly a year ago. That chair was getting to be an important part of his family's memories. Maybe they could ask to take it away as a keepsake?

Murmured hushing noises spread through the crowd, and George looked up to see the Interrogators filing in to their places, their plum coloured robes billowing slightly as they walked. Dumbledore took centre seat. George blinked. In his self-pity, he'd completely forgotten that Professor Dumbledore was the Chief Warlock. Dumbledore looked him straight in the eye, and George felt his innards curdle. The Professor may act like a fool, but he wasn't one, and right now he was examining George's insides, he was sure of it. Wait, wasn't Dumbledore a Legilimens? Was he looking into George's mind right now? Reading his thoughts? Ergh. Think penance, think remorse. Be penitent, be remorseful. Don't think about Enid Tucker and the broom cupboard. Dumbledore turned his head to look at the crowd of supporters and smiled at someone he saw there. George followed his gaze, to find himself looking at Enid, who'd obviously turned up in support. George felt his face suddenly match his hair colour. Dumbledore looked back and turned his creepy insight on Fred. After a minute, Dumbledore turned to look into the crowd again, and narrowed his eyes at Oliver, then looked back at Fred. Fred's face flamed. George raised his eyebrow at his brother. "Oliver?" Fred just shrugged. George filed it away for later interrogation.

Without anyone saying or doing anything, the room hushed as if the sound had been turned down. Dumbledore, Chief Warlock, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Greatest Wizard of the age, was about to speak. He pulled thoughtfully on his beard for a moment, then said, "You two are very lucky young men indeed."

George blinked. That can't have been right, surely?

Dumbledore continued, "Under usual circumstances, this court would have had no choice but to sentence you both for tax evasion, breaking and entering, and attempted theft. This would have meant an extended stay in prison." He stopped to shuffle through some scrolls in front of him.

"However," he said, just as whispering was beginning in the crowd, "these are not normal circumstances. Despite several youthful indiscretions..." George sincerely hoped he wasn't talking about broom closets there, "you have not previously been found guilty of any serious crime. As your family is well respected and liked within the community", there was some hissing from the crowd at this, from Death Eaters presumably, "and as the requirement to file these particular tax returns is considered by the general public to be both antiquated and draconian, a petition was raised on your behalf, to have all charges dropped. Unfortunately as you are most certainly guilty of the charges raised against you, we are not in a position to be able to find you innocent."

George exchanged a horrified look with Fred. This wasn't the deal they had cut with that smarmy lawyer.

"However, it is certainly within the realms of this jury, to hand down such sentence as it sees fit. The matter has been discussed at length. It is the great pleasure of this court to deliver a verdict of guilty."

"What?" yelled Fred, packing lots of astonishment into one word.

Dumbledore pinned Fred to the spot with a simple but devastating Look. Fred subsided. George practised being meek, and waited for the inevitable. So much for their expensive solicitor, the bastard.

Dumbledore spoke again. "Alas, all crimes must receive a sentence, and this is it. As the crime was one against the greater community, so the punishment shall be for the good of the community. Recent months have seen an increase in violence, and a general slump in public morale. Plans have therefore been made to bolster our good humour. Many such activities have already been organised, most notably the forthcoming Hogsmead Street Festival. Sadly, the festival committee has thus far been unable to find anyone to provide suitable entertainment for the evening. However it has come to the attention of the festival organisers, that you two young men may be able to rectify the problem."

George felt his brow wrinkle. What on earth was the old guy on about? Scratch that. What on earth was he on? Had someone dosed his lemondrops?

"Many attendees of Hogwarts have quite vivid memories of the days preceding your departure from the school. I am assured by both students and faculty alike, that your firework display was quite marvellous."

Oh! George's brow unwrinkled and widened to cover half his scalp. His eyes were threatening to pop out of his head. Dumbledore wanted them to do fireworks? Dumbledore wanted them to do fireworks!

"As the Festival is in one week, you are being released, under supervision, to begin preparation for your penance, the results of which, I expect, will be enjoyed by everyone who will be attending." George noted the statement sounded like more like a threat than a promise. " I sincerely hope that this has been a lesson to you both, and that I will not have to see you in front of me again." He began to rise, paused, and added, "Unless of course you are delivering to me some of your most excellent Canary Creams." He nodded, and continued in his dignified exit. The rest of the jury followed him out.

George didn't know what to do. It seemed they'd won after all. What a marvellous man their solicitor was! He turned to Fred, as the murmuring in the courtroom rose to cheering, and quickly became applause and wolf whistles.

"Holy shit!" said Fred. "Did we just win?" He flinched as someone hit him hard on the back of the head.

"Language, Fred!" shrilled Molly, who had probably apparated the 10 feet across the room to be with them. She didn't seem too angry though, as she enveloped Fred in a bone-crushing hug. Arthur appeared beside George. For a moment he thought his Father might hug them too, but after a moments hesitation Arthur punched him lightly on the shoulder, then shook himself.

"Well, I won't say I'm proud of you son. What you've put your Mother and I through was utterly inconsiderate, but I'm glad you'll both be OK."

George ignored his Father's hesitation and took the hug initiative himself. "Sorry Dad. Didn't think."

"Yes, well, that much was obvious." said his Mother from somewhere just left of him. "We'd best be going then. You two have a lot of work to do before the end of the week."

"Shouldn't we wait for our court-appointed guardian?" asked Fred, looking round for a sign of an authority figure.

"That's your father and me," said Molly. "The Ministry put us in charge of your supervision till the completion of your sentence." She fussed with George's collar.

"What!"

Molly turned and fussed with Fred's collar, brushing off the sort of dirt specks that can only be seen by housewives. "The jury decided that as we had a lot of experience at keeping an eye on you, and as your Father's now got his job back, no thanks to the two of you I might add, you should move back home with us till the Festival is over."

"What!" they both yelled again, astonishment changing to horror.

"S'true lads." Arthur nodded, a dismal expression flitting across his face. "Don't worry. I'll clean out my old shed, and you can work in there. Plenty of bench space, and you won't upset the neighbours with the explosions." He looked at his pocket watch. "We'd best be going."

"Damn," George said as quietly as he could to Fred, "looks like we didn't win after all."

"Language, George!" Molly thundered, and slapped the back of his head, just before they all disapparated to the Burrow.

Someone in the crowd jostled his elbow. When George turned to say sorry, he recognized the journalist from the Daily Prophet, who was fast becoming a fixture in their lives. "Oh. It's you."

"What's that?" said Pratt. "Oh hello there, young George. Seen our Mr Potter around anywhere have you?"

George knew exactly where Harry was right now - enjoying drinks with Ron and Hermione further down the street. "No."

Pratt looked disbelieving. "Oh well, if you do run into him, would you tell him. Oh! Here's a coincidence!"

George looked round to see Harry running toward them.

"George! Fred says he needs to see you. Says you've forgotten to put the control charm on the final explosion." Harry belatedly saw Pratt. "Oh," he said, face going blank, "hello."

"Mr Potter! Nice to finally catch up with you. How about a few words for our readers?"

Harry looked thoughtful. "Fish, carpet, television, exams."

"Now, Mr. Potter, I'm sure you know what I meant." Pratt wagged his finger.

Harry sighed. "I am very much enjoying tonight's events, especially the entertainment provided by the Weasley brothers, of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. I'm grateful to the committee for all their hard work, and I really like the punch." He grabbed a glass from a tray being carried by a passing elf, and sipped to demonstrate how much he enjoyed it. "Mmm."

Pratt furiously scribbled down everything Harry had just said. He was too busy looking at his notes to see the face Harry made at George. "And You-Know-Who?"Pratt asked.

"I don't think he likes punch,"said Harry.

"Do you think he'll like tonight's defiant mood of the public?"

Fred interrupted as he elbowed his way into the group. "If he does, then we've done it all wrong." He looked at Harry. "I thought you were coming straight back."

Harry nodded toward Pratt. "Duty called."

Fred's eyes narrowed. He looked back down the street. "Isn't that your editor coming this way, Mr Pratt?"

Pratt looked up. "Where? Oh bugger. I was meant to have this in three hours ago. Good talking with you again, Mr. Potter." He disapparated.

George scanned the crowd. "I don't see his boss."

Fred grinned. "Not if he's not really there, you don't."

Harry grinned back at him. "Thanks. The interviews are getting boring already."

"Price of fame, Harry." He slapped Harry on the shoulder.

A huge shadow obscured the torchlight. "Sorry, sorry." Hagrid stopped to clumsily wipe up the drinks he had knocked into others. "'Lo boys. See you haven't lost your touch."

George grinned. "Hagrid! Glad you could make it. Have you seen our new range of large sweets for large people? Specially designed with you in mind!"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You're selling your stuff even here?"

"Why not?" Fred asked. "Need to make enough money so we can hire an assistant."

"Why do you need an assistant?"

"To do our taxes!" they said together, and clinked their glasses as a hand shaped firework exploded over the crowd. As the charm took hold and the middle finger of the hand slowly extended, they heard Molly let out an indignant shriek. Fred and George exchanged glances.

"Sorry Hagrid," said Fred.

"Sorry Harry," said George.

"But we should be going."

"Forms to fill in."

"Taxes to file."

"Ta ra!"

And with that, they disapparated, leaving behind a very confused Hagrid, an outraged Molly, and a smirking Harry.