For Fred.

"I'll be watching you."
- The Police, 'Every Breath You Take.'

"You ready, George?" I looked at George, non-magical broom in hand.

"Ready, Ange." He replied, something like a smile spreading across his face as he held a feather duster.

After yesterday, I'd convinced him to get to cleaning the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, but we weren't going to use magic. We'd use Muggle tools.

"Why?" He'd asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

"It's calming. Kind of fun, really. We should try it." I replied. Going about buying the Muggle tools had been a bit hard, but it was worth it.

Now we were standing in the middle of the store, and George started to dust off a tabletop while I focused on sweeping the floor. The sounds of us two working filled the silence, and I started to hum a tune I'd heard somewhere. I couldn't quite remember what it was.

I smiled to myself, watching George's rather serious face as he dusted off the counter, though his movements were slow and deliberate. He wasn't quite getting the fun of it yet. It was strange, doing something so mundane in a place where everything was usually chaotic, but in some weird way, it felt like it was the perfect break. The sound of the broom bristles scraping across the floor mixed with the soft hum of the tune, and for a second, I could almost forget the weight of everything—the battle, the loss, and the constant reminder that things would never be the same.

"Hey, George," I said, pausing in my sweeping. He looked up from his work. "I think you're actually doing better than I expected."

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching as though he might laugh. "Are you implying I'm a better wizard than a cleaner, Angelina?"

I chuckled. "What can I say? I'm just impressed. You're making it look easy."

"Maybe I'll make a career out of it," he quipped back, still wiping down the tables with a feather duster like it was the most serious task in the world. He wasn't wrong though; there was something strangely satisfying about it.

As I swept closer to a large object that was covered with a sheet, I wondered what it was.

"George."

"Hm?"

"What's this?" I asked. He turned to where I was standing, and his eyes widened.

"Nothing. Don't uncover it." He said firmly, his face hardening.

"Okay." I replied quickly, keeping my eyes on the floor and continuing to sweep. But suddenly, I stumbled over something, and my hand grabbed onto the sheet for support as I fell. I gave a little yelp, and George ran over to help me up.

"Merlin, Angelina, are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm-" I trailed off when I saw George look up at what I had accidentally uncovered. His face crumpled in despair.

"George, what-" then I looked at what he was staring at.

It was his own reflection.

As I stared at George, I could feel a strange shift in the air, a weight settling between us. His hand gripped the edge of the mirror, like he was holding onto the last thread of something precious. I could feel him holding back, something familiar stirring in his eyes. It was like I was seeing Fred there instead of George, a reminder of how their bond had always been so inextricably linked.

Well, not always.

Great Hall, 1995.
Late into Fred and Angelina's Sixth Year

"I've always loved the way Quidditch works. You're really brilliant on the pitch, Angelina."

"Oh, well, thank you." I replied shyly, stifling the urge to giggle like a stupid thirteen year old.

It was breakfast in the Great Hall, and I had finished eating, ready to go practice. But a charming guy from Ravenclaw, Malcolm Baddock, had stopped me and started to talk to me. He was gesturing animatedly, his silky black hair falling into his eyes more times than I could count.

And then I felt it. That familiar prickle of heat crawling up my spine.

Fred was staring. Again.

He didn't say anything at first, but I knew he was watching me. It wasn't the first time, either. Since the Yule Ball, things between us had been... complicated. Sure, he'd danced with me, flirted, made me laugh like no one else could. But afterward? Nothing. No follow-up. No "what does this mean?" conversation. Just... Fred, being Fred.

So what was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for him to make up his mind?

"Oi, Baddock," Fred's voice cut across the room, loud enough to turn heads.

I looked up just in time to see him saunter over, his usual smirk plastered across his face, but there was an edge to it today. "Don't you have a library to haunt or something? Pretty sure Ravenclaws get withdrawals if they're away from their books too long."

Malcolm blinked, confused. "Er, no, actually, I was just talking to—"

"Yeah, I can see that," Fred interrupted, his tone sharp despite the forced grin. "Really riveting stuff, I'm sure. Quidditch tactics, was it?"

"Fred!" I snapped, heat rising in my cheeks. "What is your problem?"

"No problem," he said casually, though his jaw was tight. "Just thought I'd check on my favorite Chaser, make sure she hasn't been kidnapped by Ravenclaw's golden boy here."

Malcolm stood awkwardly, looking between us. "I should probably—"

"Yeah, you probably should," Fred said, stepping aside to give him a clear path to the corridor. Malcolm hurried away, clearly embarrassed.

"Fred!" I hissed again, shoving him.

"Ow." He said playfully.

"Seriously? What the hell was that?" I fumed.

He shrugged. "What? Just looking out for you, Angie."

"Don't call me that." I hissed.

"Didn't mind me calling you that at the Yule Ball, did you?" He smirked, making my cheeks warm.

"Shut up." I said flatly. Fred sighed.

"Look, I just didn't think you'd want to waste your morning listening to that git blather on. I was just looking out for you."

I crossed my arms, glaring at him. "Looking out for me? That's what we're calling it now? Merlin, you're so—"

"So what?" he challenged, stepping closer, voice lowered to a whisper, his red hair ruffled.

"Jealous!" I snapped. Some students looked up from their food, raising their eyebrows.

The word hung in the air between us. His smirk faltered for the first time, replaced by a flicker of something else—guilt, maybe, or embarrassment.

"I'm not jealous," he muttered, though the pink creeping up his neck told a different story.

I laughed bitterly, shaking my head. "Right. Not jealous. You're just... Fred, swooping in to scare off anyone who might actually treat me like—" I stopped myself before I could say like I matter.

"Like what?" he asked, his voice quieter now.

I met his gaze, hoping he'd get the hint. Hoping, like I always did, that he'd say something real. But he just stood there, shoving his hands in his pockets and scowling at the floor like it had offended him.

"Forget it," I said, brushing past him and ignoring the way his shoulder lingered against mine for half a second too long. "Figure out whatever this is, Fred. Then maybe we can talk."

I stormed down the corridor, intending to go to the pitch, when I heard thundering footsteps behind me.

"Angelina!"

"What?!" I whirled around, expecting it to be Fred. But it was George, who stopped before me and panted for a few seconds before talking.

"Ange," he'd said, his voice a little hesitant, "you and Fred... you two are pretty close, huh?"

I'd raised an eyebrow at him, confused. "Of course we are. He's my best mate. Both of you are."

George's eyes flickered to the floor, and then back up at me, his words careful. "Just... be careful, yeah? Fred's great and all, but sometimes he doesn't notice what's right in front of him."

I had no idea what he meant at first, but his tone said something was off. There was something in George that didn't quite sit right, but I didn't know what it was.

"George," I'd said, stepping closer to him, "what's going on?"

His gaze hardened for just a moment before he shrugged it off. "Nothing, forget I said anything."

But it stuck with me.

***

And now, standing here in the shop, watching George's face crumble as he looked at his reflection, that memory felt like a punch to the gut. The undercurrent of jealousy, the protectiveness, the way I suddenly knew Fred had unknowingly hurt George every time he was with me.

George and Fred had always been two sides of the same coin, but underneath it all, there was that thread of rivalry, of feelings unsaid.

I stood there, looking at George break down as he saw his brother in the mirror, staring back at him.