[identity profile] soubi-smalls.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] remix_redux
Title: Shattered Image (The Two Heads Are Better Than One Remix)
Summary: Triangles aren't very stable. Angelina looks back over her school days with Fred and George, and how she managed to not come between them.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Angelina Johnson
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or their universe.
Original story: A Shattered Mirror by The White Lily
Notes: Thanks to the usual suspects.



I can't believe he's gone.

* * *

I couldn't tell them apart for ages.

Yes, I admit it. Especially during Quidditch - they were both so handsome, so silly, so quick, so clever. It was impossible to know whether it was George flashing past me, arm raised to give the Bludger a good whack, or Fred executing a breathtaking loop to smash the Bludger away from Harry just as he was about to grab the Snitch.

But as I got to know them better, I found little differences. Fred lengthened the "ee" sound at the end of my name a little more than George. I'll never forget how he used to yell for me in the common room when he wanted help with Arithmancy. It was never, "Excuse me, Angelina, if you have a moment could you possibly assist George and me with question 4?"

No, it was, "OI! ANGELEENA! Help please?" It was always accompanied by a cheeky grin.

George's eyebrows went further into his hairline when they were planning a prank.

Like the time I caught them whispering together near the Potions classroom, grinning like mad, just after breakfast. I had an essay for Professor Snape in my hand. One I'd worried about and fretted about all night after a really full on Quidditch training session. Then I'd worked on it during breakfast too, without managing time to eat. Or time to brush my hair, which was almost as messy as Snape's.

Brain-dead from tiredness, I really wasn't aware of my surroundings, but when I heard a familiar snicker I stopped. I went back through my memories of the last few seconds and realised I'd walked past two people in an alcove. It was one of those alcoves that moved around Hogwarts. I blushed at first because I figured I'd walked past two kids snogging, but then my brain flashed the image of two redheads at me. Fred and George.

I stopped, and took a few paces backwards. My heels clicked on the stone floor. I tapped the roll of parchment against my cheek as I stared at them. A smudge of ink on my index finger caught my eye. Fred waved at me. "Can we help you, miss?"

George executed a little half-bow. "Yes, was madam looking for women's shoes? Or perhaps another electrical socket in which to stick madam's grotty finger?"

"Oi! My hair isn't that bad!" I said defensively. "I stayed up all night finishing this snessay for Ape - I mean this essay for Snape."

George paled. "Crikey," he said, "I forgot Ape's snessay was due today." He grinned. "Good thing I handed it in yesterday."

"Run along, then, dear Angelina," Fred said. "Ape's rooms are THAT way."

I looked from one to the other. They both looked like little boys standing in front of a broken window with a Bludger on the ground, vowing no it wasn't me miss I have no idea how that window got itself broken please don't tell my parents. "Yes, thanks ever so much, boys," I said wryly. "I suppose you're not going to tell me what you're up to?"

Fred drew himself up straight, and suddenly looked very dignified and solemn. I knew he was just being silly. . . but it was kind of attractive. "We COULD tell you."

They said together, "But then we'd have to kill you."

"Or at least mess up your hair and clothes so everyone would laugh at you," George added. "Oh - wait! Too late!"

I rolled my eyes, laughed, and left them to it.

In Transfigurations just before lunch, we all turned to the diagram in our textbooks which showed the correct stances for transfiguring water into ink, then back into water again. Fred and George looked extremely innocent when the diagram transformed into a tiny picture of Professor Snape with long, hairy arms, bellowing, "WHERE ARE YOUR SNESSAYS?".

Fred and George were obnoxious but knew exactly how to soften it into likeable obnoxiousness.

I knew it was Fred who clubbed Flint for me. When Flint smashed into me during Quidditch, when we were in fifth year.

It was really, really hard not to fall in love.

With both of them. Maybe Fred a little more.

Well, it was teenage love, which isn't the same as adult love, but that doesn't mean it's not important and passionate and lasting. I think adults don't get that, sometimes. Teenage love matters. And it can mature.

I didn't know which one to go with to the Yule Ball. And I didn't want to choose. I didn't want to go with both of them as it would've been selfish of me, though that isn't to say I never thought about it - about having the two of them at once. I'm kind of shy sometimes but I'm only human!

I heard them one time say that I didn't know which was which. I didn't tell them I knew. I did get confused sometimes, but most of the time I knew. I didn't tell them because I was scared. A stupid, scared coward. Because if they knew I could tell them apart, then they might make ME choose.

Triangles are weird things. They're odd and pointy. I didn't want to single out either of them. Not from selfishness (well, maybe a little) but because I didn't want to hurt either of them. I didn't want to come between them. Their twinness, their Fred and Georgeness, was what I loved about them.

Fred "won". I couldn't work out if I was really pleased about that or really disappointed. I ended up going with him, and we had a lovely time.

* * *

It turned into marriage. A wonderful marriage. And pregnancy. Which is when it all went wrong.

I had some shopping to do. Fred and George were to meet me at a cafe in Diagon Alley. I got there early, so I put my bags on the ground, manoeuvred my giant belly (twins run in the family) into a seat, and took out a book ('Quidditch's Greatest Matches Vol 12') while I waited for them.

I don't know what made me look up.

Fred was clowning around on some scaffolding, which was obviously unsafe, but we all played Quidditch and the boys were always pranksters. What did we care about safe? I saw it begin to come away from the building, and then I was waddling down the street, yelling, "FRED!" in a desperate attempt to warn him but it was too late, the scaffolding tore loose and crashed to the ground and a pillar. . . speared. . . through. . . his. . . chest.

George looked up, tears streaming down his face, responding to the name as always. I stared at him, stared at Fred, and slowed. George groaned, "Angel," just like Fred used to do. George caught me in his arms, just like Fred used to do, and crushed me against him, and I felt his desperate desire to comfort me even in his own grief. He was shaking like someone had just cut off his leg. My arms came up around him and we clung to each other.

He said, "Oh, Merlin, George! GEORGE!"

And that's when I did it. That's when I accepted it. "Oh, Fred," I breathed, and buried my face in his neck. "I can't believe George is gone."

We need to be able to go on. My babies need a father. And I've always been a coward.

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