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It starts, like many other things, with Harry James Potter. Or, to be more accurate, it starts with Harry James Potter, the first time he greets Fred at Hogwarts.
"Harrikins!" Fred yells, waving. "How's the nation's favourite Chosen One this morning? How many babies have you kissed today?"
And Harry Potter turns, looks at him (with startlement and impatience, mostly, but that is of no matter), and says:
"Uh, yeah, morning, Fred. I haven't kissed any babies, if you'd like to know. That's on my evening schedule."
"Fred?" Fred repeats, bringing a hand to his heart in astonishment that is only half feigned. "Who is that Fred that you speak of? I'm George!"
It's been known to happen before, people telling them apart. And it's almost immediately been proved to be pure luck. But it's been so long since anyone has even bothered to try, that Fred can't help a tiny, unfurling blossom of curiosity. And then Harry stops in his tracks and examines Fred for a long moment (Fred's still with shock, a rare achievement), and he shakes his head.
"No. Definitely Fred."
Fred watches him go, silent. Later, he tells George, and George reminds him to be cautious, because that's what he does, and Fred completely ignores this, because that's what he does.
It keeps happening.
And happening. And happening.
Harry Potter will not be fooled - not by disguises, not by pretending, not by lying. George and Fred try again and again, and Harry squints at them like he suspects he's being played but can't quite put his finger on how or why, and gets it right every single time.
George likes putting people in lists. It's harmless (even though it can be a little mean-spirited at times), and it's often useful. But he doesn't put Harry Potter in any, because he doesn't yet have a list for him. Good lists need names, and that's- a problem. Every reason why Harry is different sounds too strange, or inadequate, or small. He's his own category, and George can't even classify it.
He brings the problem to Fred.
Fred is the only living creature that knows about the lists (George's childhood pet owl used to, too), although certainly not because it's a secret. George wouldn't be ashamed to explain himself, if anyone ever asked. But no one ever does, and frankly, even if they did, George would keep going to Fred for problems like this, because Fred curls around him like a particularly friendly tentacle of the Giant Squid and makes encouraging noises that he means, and lets George tug at his hair while he thinks.
"The Unprankables," Fred finally says, beaming up at George from his lap.
George already had that list made, in his head, but there is no one in it yet, because everyone is fair game for pranks (only the type and severity vary), each other included. But Harry Potter- well, he could work with that. The bloke doesn't seem like the kind to appreciate being pranked, anyway, and besides- he's heard the rumours, the ones about his Muggle life. George doubts pranking would go over too well.
"'right," he tells Fred. "But what's his list?"
Fred's face scrunches up unattractively (George still finds himself very much attracted).
"Dunno, Georgie," he says. "He tries. That's really all, innit?"
It really is. But it is- so much.
Harry Potter giving them his gold. Harry Potter laughing at their jokes (mostly, only the good ones). Harry Potter seeing them. Harry Potter talking with George about blast-ended skrewts. Harry Potter composing obnoxious lyrics for Malfoy with Fred.
"I think we've got ourselves a new brother," Fred says. "And a new, improved version of what a brother is supposed to be like."
He watches George considering it, can feel him ignoring the tiny shard of meanness in the comment for now. In the end, George just shrugs and presses his face against Fred's shoulder.
"I like Charlie," he offers.
"No," Fred reminds him, "you like his inherent Charlie-ness. Charlie-Charlie, if you will. Everyone likes Charlie-Charlie, we agreed that he takes daily baths in Veela pheromones, the little bint. But you don't like Charlie-the-brother. He's a straight up prick."
"He's not a straight anything, Forge."
"I walked right into that one, didn't I? Oh, dear, my nose is bleeding! You'll have to spell my glasses stuck to my face, Gred!"
"Harry's not our little brother," George replies, barely even blinking. "He's- something else."
Harry feels like a little brother. Fred certainly treats him like one (like one he likes), and he knows George does, too. But his twin is usually better at these things than he is, so he shrugs and pats his head.
"If you say so, Georgie. Though you're really not the best wizard to go on about what is and isn't brotherly, I don't think."
George snorts loudly, in that way he does when he wants Fred to know that he's being the furthest thing from funny, but he lets Fred tilt his head up and kiss him, because there's no one in the room and because George is like him in many ways, and those ways include how much he wants to kiss his twin at any given moment.
It's easy to tell. It's always the same: a lot.
A few months after Harry graduates, he drops by Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and walks, uninvited (officially so, at least), into the small apartment George and Fred share above the shop.
He hasn't spoken to Fred since leaving Hogwarts. George knows this because Fred has told him, but also because Harry, unlike every other person he has ever met, doesn't consider him and Fred to be the same person. He hasn't spoken to Fred, but he has spoken to George. Frequently. It's made Fred a little unhappy and very pleased at the same time.
"Well, well, look who's here," George greets him, grinning.
Harry's face is set into stubbornness, like it's been for the past few months, but his eyes are soft.
"Hey, George. Uh- is Fred here?"
George takes a moment to delight himself in the guess, correct as always. He loves Harry Potter.
Fred does, too, so very much. That was precisely the problem.
"Forge!" George yells, so Fred can hear him from their bedroom. "We have a guest! I need you here to scare him off!"
And then Fred walks into the living room slash kitchen and nearly trips on his own feet, eyes fixed on the scrawny, dishevelled vision standing against the door like it's planning to run out at any moment.
After a minute of neither of them saying anything (Fred is so very bad at apologies, and Harry is even worse at- well, anything social), George takes the matter in his own hands.
"He's very sorry," he tells Harry. And, turning towards Fred, "He's also very sorry."
Harry's mouth twitches, but immediately sets into a flat line, and he's glaring a hole into their carpet like he's got something against it.
"I've had enough of people telling me what to do, that's all," he says, quiet and sullenly regretful.
"And for once, one of those people was trying to keep you alive," Fred hisses back, but at least he's not yelling, and the reproach and hurt in his voice is a far cry from what it was months ago.
George drags Fred even closer to himself and wraps an arm around him, tight, knowing that Harry won't think twice about it (because he rarely thinks twice about anything, of course, but also because he doesn't really understand how boundaries work). He presses his mouth to the side of Fred's cheek, with the excuse of whispering into his ear.
"Tell him, Freddy," he nudges.
Fred smiles wryly, folds his arms over his chest, and gives Harry a half-bow.
"Congratulations on your Auror training, sire. I, yer humble servant, am entirely at your service. Say the word and I'll personally rescue you from all those ol' Moody stans forcing you into Auror-ness against yer will."
George can't quite tell if Harry knows how much Fred means it.
They take Harry Potter to their bed the week before he finishes Auror training.
It's entirely pure and platonic.
It has to be - the poor bloke is just so incredibly confused at the thought that anyone would want him at all, or that Fred and George would, or that Fred and George don't really behave like regular brothers, or- really, there's quite a lot to be confused about, so Fred can't judge him for it. This time.
They lay on the bed and Fred pulls Harry in the middle, because he might be a bit of a jealous prat when it comes to George, but not with Harry, and especially not when it's obvious he's never even been touched this much, like he's wanted. So Fred exchanges a wordless gaze with George over Harry's head, and they press their bodies against Harry's until there's no space at all between them.
Fred stretches out an arm over Harry's chest, lets it rest there, heavy. George stretches his own arm and grasps Fred's hand, tangling their fingers on top of Harry, and Harry's breathing under their clasped hands is faster and lighter than usual, as if startled.
He leans into their nuzzling, cuddling, and various forms of touching like he's dying for it, wide-eyed and still confused, his own hands tentatively settling on George's hip, around Fred's shoulder.
"How's it going, stranger?" Fred asks, chirpy.
"I'm- good," Harry replies, blinking, and a smile begins to cross his face.
"Hullo, Good, I'm George."
Fred stretches out his leg over Harry's to kick George's feet. His twin's lucky Fred can't reach his face.
"You had the opportunity to make a dad joke even more cringe-worthy by adding innuendo and you didn't. I'm ashamed of knowing you, truly."
"I had a nightmare like this, once," Harry says, dryly. "Only, Voldemort was there, and he was feeding Nagini his own nose. It might actually be an improvement."
George laughs, and Fred can feel himself grinning. He presses his grin into the curve of Harry's neck, so he can feel it, too.
"You're an improvement, snookums," he mumbles, syrupy-sweet.
There's a beat of silence before Harry huffs, and grips Fred's shoulder tighter. Fred doesn't need to see it to know that he's doing the same thing with his hand on George's hip.
"Yeah," Harry mutters, "okay."
And it absolutely is.