Chapter 1
Fred Weasley had his first panic attack when he was 14 years old, sitting in Transfiguration on a Monday afternoon.
Weak sunlight seeped through the condensated windows around the classroom, casting pale shafts of light over the second, third, and sixth rows of tables. It was chilly but not overly so, and a fire crackled quietly in the hearth behind Professor McGonagall’s desk. She was demonstrating the transfiguring of a small parrot into a porcelain bowl and back again, and the repeated motions were sending several members of their class to sleep.
But not Fred. Uncomfortable goosebumps had been prickling his arms for nearly a quarter of an hour, ever since he’d let his mind wander back to Ginny. She was safe now, probably sleeping in the hospital wing this very minute, no You-Know-Who in her head or basilisks threatening her life, but it made him feel slightly sick every time he thought of her. The line between the Ginny who was lying in bed now and the Ginny who was lying on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets close to death just two days ago was fading dangerously.
George glanced at him for the third time, skimming his fingers lightly over the table, and the sound caught Fred’s spiral. He must be noticing something, he wasn’t hiding his thoughts well enough—to be fair, it had never been something Fred had been good at, but it did seem stupid to feel like this now that everything was over—maybe it was his breathing that gave him away.
When George had panic attacks, usually only triggered by dysphoria during his period, breathing was always his tell. And though Fred had been by his side through those for the past two years, howling Celestina Warbeck out-of-tune and bouncing on the bed during dramatic readings of passages from their Charm’s textbook to take his brother’s mind off cramps and curves he could not control, he couldn’t help himself, and those days were feeling very far away now.
Was he breathing unevenly? Was he breathing at all? The realization that he did not know—that his thoughts were so far away from his brain that he could no longer feel his body—was jarring, and he could feel the air closing in around him. It was as if he simply could not get enough oxygen no matter how deeply he breathed. That meant he was breathing, then, but his chest was squeezing in reluctance to let go of the air each time. George glanced at him again, he was noticing again, and Fred’s palms were going clammy, and his skin was two sizes too small, and he needed to get out, out of the pale sunlight on the tables and the chilly classroom and the lesson Professor McGonagall was teaching and out of his squeezing chest and the thoughts of Ginny dying on the floor with a basilisk slithering around her and out of his skin and his mind, and yet he couldn’t, and a horrible sort of terror had blanketed him all at once, and he was much too aware of each muscle in his body because he couldn’t move them, he couldn’t move, and he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t stop thinking and he couldn’t get out, but he had to get out, yet he couldn’t move, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t—
“Professor!” George’s hand had shot up. “Professor, may I use the restroom?”
“Yes, Weasley, you’re excused,” she waved him on without looking away from the bird on her arm, and instinctively Fred had pushed himself out of his seat, and he couldn’t feel his legs but somehow he was moving anyway, twisting between the tables to go blindly to the door, and then he was in the corridor and he could hear, behind the hum of blood in his ears, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor and he was still moving, and with some sort of clarity he found the corner of the corridor, and his body was pressed into it before he knew it was happening, dimly, shuddering.
And George’s footsteps were echoing too, and he was dashing down the corridor to meet him, and Fred could feel his hands gripping his shoulders, warm against his goosebumped skin.
“Freddie! Fred, hey, can you hear me? Freddie?”
George was there, George was with him, holding him, George was there. Terror was suffocating him, and he wasn’t alone, and hot tears began to spill down his face. Fred leaned forward into his brother, arms wrapped around his stomach, trying to stifle his sobs.
“I-I think,” he gasped, “I think I’m having, having one of those, those panic att-attacks, -acks you have, I can’t, can’t breathe—”
“Fred, Freddie,” George was grasping his hand, pressing it against his chest. “Freddie, can you feel my shirt?”
“Wh-what? Y-yeah, George, I can’t breathe, help—” how was this helping, how was this helping, how was the rough fabric helping—
“Freddie, can you feel my heartbeat?”
Could he? Fred pressed his hand against the heat of his brother’s chest, trembling all over. Could he? Could he? George’s hand clasped over his own, warm and damp with sweat. “Y-yeah, yeah, I can, I can.”
“Could you count it, you think?”
Fred tried for a breath. Nothing seemed to come, but George squeezed his hand again.
“Could you count it?”
“O-one… two… th-three, George, George help, George I can’t breathe, Ge—”
“Shhhh…” George moved his hand to wrap it around his brother’s shoulder, stroking the back of his neck. “Keep counting, the counting’ll help, I know it, I promise, Freddie, just keep counting…”
So he tried again while George continued to murmur, his lips pressed to Fred’s temple. “O-one… t-two… three, four… six, seven…”
“Freddie? Can you smell my robes?”
“Wh-what?”
“My robes, can you smell them?”
Fred sucked air through his nose. “Y-yeah, they smell like… like plants…”
“You know why you can smell them?”
“What?” How was this helping, how—
“You’re breathing.”
The terror was suffocating him, and yet he was breathing. It was a stupid question, but he couldn’t stop it from falling out. “You-you’re sure?”
George pulled back, grasping his shoulders to look him in the face. He was grinning slightly. “Absolutely sure.”
“O-okay…” Fred tried breathing again. He could feel it this time, even if it was like blowing up a balloon with a book on top of it. The air was cold and it burned his throat.
“You okay, Freddie?” Only the slightest bit of concern was seeping into his brother’s voice.
Fred took another breath. “Yeah. Are you?”
“Mhm, I’m okay. C’mon, let’s go back to Gryffindor Tower, Lee’ll bring our stuff and I’m craving a chocolate frog.” George put his arm around Fred’s waist, guiding him evenly down the corridor. Softly, he began to hum the tune of Celestina Warbeck’s Hot Strong Love.