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And really, what was Harry to do? A dozen faces passed by his closed eyes, some so familiar it was as if they were standing directly in front of him. He could feel time pressing down on his trembling shoulders, pressing and pressing and pressing. He opened his mouth, nearly shouting a name. A single name of the one he missed the most. The one whose absence was so striking like a fist through his chest cavity.
Dumbledore still stood before him, blue eyes piercing and sorrowed. He looked both younger and older than he did in his last moments of life. The choice is yours, Harry. It has always been yours. The first syllables of the name died on his tongue, which suddenly felt thick and clumsy in Harry's dry mouth. He swallowed, heavily, eyes sweeping shut once more. The blinding white light surrounding him was too much. He thought of the terror happening at Hogwarts. The blood and screams and booming echoes of shouted spells. He thought of dark robes, roaring fires and grim faces covered in soot.
He thought of a sea of fiery ginger-red hair and determination and freckled noses, of treacle tart and roasted beef being passed around a rickety wooden table, where elbows dug into ribs and laughter rang about. Harry whispered, "Fred. Fred Weasley."
The darkness was quiet and Fred hated that. He wanted to move, struggled to do so, but his body remained leaden. His mind was sluggish. What had he been doing? And where the hell was George? Why was his body not moving? Fred figured George had cast a Leg-Locker Curse while he had been sleeping again. A flickering smile touched his lips, but he frowned as he became increasingly aware of a burning sensation alone his spine. It was a bone-deep feeling, one that was quickly making him uncomfortable. Alright, you git. Enough. Let up on the spells.
There was a beat of silence, as Fred remained still and silent in preparation for George's laughter, but no such thing occurred. The frown on his face was deeper now. He could feel it pull at his eyebrows. Fred opened his mouth, his jaw popping in a flash of pain that had him flinching. As he gasped, Fred's entire body suddenly moved.
The burning flames tore through his body and, in one great lunge, the curse weighing him down was abruptly lifted, and his spine was curling upward to a pinnacle angle meant to snap in half, his heels digging into the ground as he trembled. And he was screaming. Screaming and gulping oxygen and choking and screaming more. Fire was roaring in Fred's ears, ripping at his eardrums, and his muscles were shaking at a rate quicker than the flight of a hummingbird. Bones were aching, rubbing against one another and grinding, surely chipping away inside of him. His skin felt as if bugs were crawling underneath, biting and stinging and eating at his veins.
When he thought he could take no more, Fred's body began to curl inward instead of outward, as if to offer himself some meager token of protection. Had the Death Eaters nabbed him? Was this torture? Fred hoped, briefly and dimly and insanely, that George had managed to get to safety. He was gurgling, spewing out mouthfuls of metallic liquid and sucking in greedy gulps of air. Suddenly, his limbs were roughly grabbed and yanked in separate directions, being held down with acute pressure. The snarling, raging, and screaming began again. He fought against the pain. Hard.
Fred's mind was not clear, not truly, but the fear for George transcended his angry pain at random intervals, like sunlight bursting through clouds, making him remember that he was a twin. And where he was, George was as well. He was floating on occasions, free of pain and racked with guilt and worry for his twin, for his family. Other times, he was screaming in rage and hate at those that would dare threaten him. Fred called out to his brother during his rageful times, screaming hotly and with terror ringing. When the pain was dulled and he was floating in the darkness, he would whisper. Just a thread of sound. Where are you? George, where are you?
And then, when Fred's fear had turned to stones inside of his chest, he heard what he had been wanting. What he had desperately held on for.
"I'm here, Freddie." The voice was soft and wobbly and achingly familiar. "I'm not going anywhere, yeah? I'm right here with you."
Fred's tongue and lips felt numb as he sighed heavily, "George…Georgie…"
"C-Can you hear me?" George let out a breathless gasp and Fred felt a warm sensation. It took a long moment before he realized slim, lengthy fingers were wrapped around his own.
Fred's lips turned upward slightly and his eyelids twitched. George let out a watery laugh and he squeezed his brother's hand. He croaked, "I'm here, Freddie. Just rest. Heal up."
"Thought…" Fred coughed for a moment before groaning. There was a stirring of cool air and then a warm palm softly pressed against his forehead. His eyes refused to open, but he slowly inhaled, wincing when his ribs protested loudly. Fred smelled bergamot: his twin. His brother.
He croaked, "Thought they had you."
George said, "Nah. They don't have either of us. It's over."
Fred forced his numb lips into a smile and muttered, "Nothing stops Gred and Forge."
"Too right." A rough reply came, "Certainly not a bunch of tosspot Dark wizards."
"Moldy Voldy is gone?" Fred croaked, clearing his throat and wincing once more.
"Yeah. Harry hit him good. I'll tell you all about it. Wait until you hear what Mum did to Bellatrix Lestrange."
Fred smiled again and tightened his fingers around George's slowly. He said, "Stay."
"Of course." George whispered, "I won't leave you for a second, Freddie."
And all was well.