There was a rustling noise at the end of his bed - the same sound that always followed the crack! of Apparition, the sound that indicated someone was trying to find their feet. George pushed the bedclothes back from his sleep-wrapped face and sat up, blinking his eyes back into focus. He peered through the darkness of his bedroom, and grinned at a familiar sight.

"Thought you'd never come back," he said with mock-worry in his voice. "You've been gone for hours!"

A light flickered into life by the other bed. "Yeah - sorry -" Fred was fumbling with something on the floor. After a few seconds, George heard the click of a trunk opening, and then the clunk of something being dropped inside. The trunk lid slammed back down, and he saw his twin straighten up, beaming.

George couldn't help but mimic his expression. "I take it you got it, then?" he asked.

"Yep," replied Fred, gleefully. "Slimy gits thought they could nick our patent - had it hidden in their safe!"

"And you didn’t leave anything that could be traced back to us?" George queried, though he knew the answer before Fred raised his eyebrows.

"'Course not!" he cried, then shrugged. "Well… there might've been some Edible Dark Marks involved, I suppose." He spread his hands, palms up, as though anyone would have done the same. "You didn't think I'd just let them get away with it?"

George tried to look disappointed. It didn't last more than five seconds, before both twins burst out laughing.

"I thought we'd pop round tomorrow," Fred suggested, climbing into bed with a satisfied look on his freckled face.

"Yeah," George agreed, "see if they've…" He trailed off. He was now looking at Fred with an odd expression, his grin faltering, eyes becoming slowly unfocused. Someone was shouting his name, though it sounded miles away.

Fred frowned at him. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Forgotten I was dead?"

"GEORGE!" Lee's yell was accompanied by a series of loud bangs. He was hammering hard on George's bedroom door, evidently annoyed. "Do you know what time it is, you lazy sod! Get up - we've got customers!"

The banging ceased, and George opened his eyes to daylight. The room was exactly as it had been in the dream, only the trunk at the end of Fred's bed was very closed and very dusty, having not been opened for over a year. Sunlight poured through the flat's windows, highlighting the heaps of clothing, boxes of untested items and unopened post lying around the bedroom. In one corner was the door to the kitchen, where George could hear that Lee had set the kettle boiling, and from which came a smell like burnt toast. The door to the bathroom was half-open, chilly light glinting off the dripping cold tap.

George stared at the windowsill, where several more letters had been delivered overnight, and then at the door, still vibrating from Lee's wake-up call. He didn't look at the other bed, knowing it would be just as neat and untouched as it had been since… since…

"George!"

"Alright, alright!" He scrambled out of bed, pushing the dream to the back of his mind and grabbing the nearest clothes to hand. He splashed icy water over his face and avoided glancing in the mirror. The knot in his stomach drove any thought of breakfast right out of his head, so he ignored the whistling kettle, hastily brushed his teeth and dashed downstairs.

There was no one in the shop except Lee.

"I thought you said…" George began, frowning at his friend, who was slouched behind the till as though nothing exceptional had happened.

"Yeah, well," Lee began, shrugging. "When I said 'customers', I really meant 'customer' -" He gestured to a stand near the shop door, where, unnoticed by George, a lone customer was hovering near a table of Fake Wands. It was Angelina Johnson.

She had looked up at the sound of George's voice, and was now walking towards him with a vague smile on her dark face. The smile did not quite reach her eyes, which were swamped with a sympathy that George didn't want to see. "Hi," she said cautiously. "Just thought I'd drop by, you know… How's it going?"

George thought he knew what she meant by 'How's it going', and was not sure he was prepared to give her an answer. The last time he had seen Angelina it had been just over a year ago, when she had been lingering by the door to the Great Hall in Hogwarts, staring at the row of the dead with tears streaming down her cheeks. It had been so crowded, the air so thick with dust and relief that he had barely recognised her, and he had been too overcome by his own grief to comfort anyone else.

She was now only a foot or so from him, the smile becoming even more forced. He knew exactly what she must be thinking - here he was, a living, breathing replica of Fred, standing right in front of her.

"Hi," he said flatly. Then, because he thought she must be expecting it, "I'm fine. How're you?"

"Fine," Angelina replied in a well-rehearsed tone. "Um - I got a job just down the road," she told him, her voice becoming a little more natural now. "The Quidditch supplies place - the one with the crazy manager. That's why I'm here, actually."

George raised an eyebrow at her, and she continued: "Lee told me you've got some products for spying on people. For a joke, you know. Only, my boss wants them for a - well - a more serious reason. He's… been a bit paranoid lately."

She was now staring around at the many shelves and stands piled high with brightly-coloured objects, all whirring and sparking at random intervals. "Business good?" she asked.

"Most of the time," Lee answered her with a nervous look at George. He, too, glanced around at the shop, though he was taking in its lack of customers. "Not this morning, obviously…" he muttered. Angelina nodded.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, before Lee continued, "So - products for spying on people… right this way." He got up, moved around the desk and led Angelina off towards a stack of black and yellow boxes marked with pictures of magnifying glasses. George watched them for a second, then, relieved that he no longer had to pretend to be content, he settled himself into Lee's chair and flipped open a copy of the Daily Prophet that was lying by the till.

His eyes moved over the words without really taking in any of the stories: "New Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement - the Third in a Year"; "Suspected Intruder to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry"; "Missing Muggle Found in the Leaky Cauldron". He rubbed a finger against his temple absently, turning the page without any desire to keep reading. Why now? Why now, when he had just started to move on?

The jangle of the shop door announced that Angelina had left, and soon Lee was standing on the other side of the counter, reading the Prophet upside-down.

"What's that about a fire-breathing goat?" he asked, pulling the paper towards him. George made no attempt to retrieve it. "D'you reckon we should get a few for the shop? Be a right attraction…"

The boy with the dreadlocks glanced anxiously at his friend, noting the dark circles around George's eyes. "What's up?" he asked.

George shrugged. "Nothing," he murmured, then saw that Lee was clearly not convinced by his answer. "Really -" he said, "just a stupid dream."

Lee nodded. "Bulbadox powder in your pyjamas again?"

"Something like that…" George said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What did Angelina want?"

"What do you think?" Lee replied, heading towards the door to the flat. "To see if you're alright, of course. Spying on people… you know the guy that runs the Quidditch place - I mean, he's a bit of a maniac, to be sure, but spying on people? It seems we never really had any effect on her ability to tell lies." He put a foot on the bottom step. "Cuppa?"

"Thanks," George told him, and watched his friend disappear up the staircase.

He was being stupid, he told himself. It was just a dream, just a reminder… Fred wouldn't want him to mope around like this.

His thoughts were momentarily distracted by a number of parcels piled on the desk before him, two of which were already emitting puffs of smoke. He dragged the one nearest to him over and flipped open the box. Inside were a few a bits of straw, a rather unpleasant smell, a half-eaten box of Puking Pastels, and a note:

"They made me sick. Money back, please."

There was also an address. George groaned.

He lifted the Pastels out of the box and shoved them to one side, crumpling the note in one hand before tossing it into the bin, which burped obligingly. He was just about to throw the box into the can as well, when he noticed a small bundle of tissue paper sitting underneath the straw. He pulled it out, and as he moved it between his hands the paper became unravelled. Something shiny fell out onto the desk.

It was a thin, gold chain supporting several dark beads and a few shards of polished glass. It looked exactly like the Good Vibrations charms sold in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes - the kind of necklaces that would make the wearer happier if he or she felt a bit under the weather. During the development stage, however, a few had gone wrong and turned black, working to make the wearer even more unhappy rather than reversing their mood. George recalled the very short note: there had been nothing about a charm in there. Perhaps the sender had forgotten to mention it? Perhaps there was nothing wrong with it at all?

He picked up the chain, dangling it before him and watching the garish light of the shop glinting off the pieces of glass. "I may as well test it on myself," he thought dully. "If there was ever a time when I wouldn't be bothered about the change, it would probably be now…"

After only a moment's hesitation, he slung it over his head, letting it settle round his neck. It slipped down under his robes and he felt the cool glass brush against his skin. He stayed very still for a moment, trying to be as aware as possible of his emotions. He didn't feel any different.

There was a thud, as Lee came stomping back downstairs, two cups of tea floating behind him. "Thought I'd better keep them in the air," he told the other. "That step half-way always gets me - we need to get that board fixed."

"Right," noted George, accepting the tea and taking a great swig. The shop door jangled again, and several rather small people crowded inside, chatting and giggling as they pointed to the huge array of products. "Business as usual," he said.

~***~

"Ok, then." Lee trudged back over the desk, clutching a wad of paper in one hand and a small box in the other. "Takings for today," he slapped the paper down in front of George, "and one returned Daydream Charm. Apparently it, er, wasn't to her mother's liking." He grinned. "You alright here, if I -"

"Yeah," said George, a little too quickly. Lee eyed him with an uncertain expression. "You go on home, I'll lock up."

One uneasy second passed, before Lee nodded. "See you tomorrow, then," he said cheerily, flashing a grin as he walked out of the shop. George watched him move off into Diagon Alley, which was now almost empty and hushed with twilight. The street lamps were beginning to glow of their own accord, as fewer and fewer people hurried up and down the road, heading for home or collecting last-minute items. George pulled the shop door shut and sealed the many locks with his wand. The lights overhead flickered off, and he trundled upstairs to the flat.

The knot in his stomach seemed even tighter as he thought of the kitchen, so dinner was now also off the menu. He slipped into his bedroom, and felt his exhaustion from this morning catch up with him in a sudden rush. Dropping down onto his bed, he kicked off his shoes, and fell instantly asleep.

What felt like a split-second later, he was awake again.

It was still dark outside, the lamps having been extinguished in the street below his window, but, he realised with a sickening jolt, there was a light on somewhere in the flat. And not just anywhere - right next to his bed.

"Hey," he heard Fred's voice. "Hey - get up."

George let out a long breath. "Not this again," he groaned, refusing to roll over and look at the dream-Fred who was, undoubtedly, filling his trunk with more salvaged goods.

"No - George, I'm serious - get up!"

"Go away," George muttered, clamping his eyes shut and trying, desperately, to go back to sleep.

"George, you git - wake up!"

"What?" He sat up, spinning round so that he was facing Fred's bed, staring blearily at the figure standing beside it. His heart sank low into his stomach, and he lowered himself back onto the bed. "Leave me alone," he whispered. "Get out of my head, just leave me alone."

"I'm not in your head, you moron!" barked Fred's voice again. "I'm right here!"

"You're a dream," George told him, speaking to himself as much as Fred.

"Why, thank you," replied his twin, "but now really isn't the time for flattery. Look - I don't really know how I got here, so if you wouldn't mind -"

George sat up again. "What are you on about?" he almost shouted. "You're always here, always. Stealing stuff from Zonko's - hiding it in that sodding trunk! You never bloody leave me alone. You won't let me get on with my life even though it's been a whole year since you - and I can't -"

He looked away, staring at the cluttered floor, then he shut his eyes tight to stop the tears that were ready to flow. Fred stood, frozen, on the other side of the room, watching his brother with a pained look on his face. There was silence. Then, without another word, George sank back into his bedclothes and drifted back to sleep.

~***~

The rap of Lee's knocking woke him for the second time in two days, though it was less urgent on this occasion, and was not accompanied by yelling.

"George? Are you alright, mate?"

George let out an unintelligible murmur and rolled over. "What..? What time is it?"

"Half ten," came the reply, muffled by the door. "I wouldn't knock - I mean, I'm not struggling out here, but -"

"Yeah, fine," George said resignedly, pushing himself upright without opening his eyes. "I'll, uh… be down in a minute."

He got shakily to his feet, then heard Lee's footsteps fade as his friend returned to the shop. The daylight gleamed unflinchingly through the windows and the babble of early-morning customers floated up from the room below. George shuffled into the bathroom, washed, and then debated whether or not to stay wearing the same clothes as the day before. After a moment's consideration, and a few hearty sniffs, he decided it was best to change.

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, his brain still not fully awake, he groped around for clean clothes amongst the jumble surrounding his bed.

"Here," someone said, as George found himself hunting for socks, and he glanced up to see a pair being held out to him.

He breathed out a sigh of relief. "Thanks," he muttered, taking the socks and pulling them onto his feet. He stood up and walked to the door. Then he froze.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned round.

There was someone lying on the other bed. Someone alive and well and grinning and looking very, very much like George. Only, it couldn't be. This person had both ears.

"What?" said Fred, one eyebrow raised. "I told you I wasn't a dream."

"Bit slow on the uptake, aren't you?"

George gaped at him. "No…" he murmured. "No, you're not… you can't be…" He rubbed his eyes vigorously and shook his head, then stared back at the figure stretched out on the bed. "That's it," he said loudly to the room at large. "It's finally happened - I've finally cracked."

Fred groaned. "You're not mad," he told his twin. "Come on, George, it's me! I'm right here! Inexplicable though it may be…"

"Inexplicable's the word, alright," George muttered. "And fat lot of help it is you telling me I'm not mad. This is just -" he broke off, rubbing his eyes again, then ran into the bathroom and threw handfuls of water over his face repeatedly. He blinked at himself in the mirror, seeing his blurry reflection stare back. "I'm definitely awake," he said slowly.

He forced his eyes open as wide as they would go, splashed another lot of water onto his face, then moved, hesitantly, back into the bedroom. Fred was still there - and was now grinning at him even more broadly, which did nothing to help matters.

The noise in the shop below was growing louder, and George heard Lee shouting something above the rabble. "I don't have time for this," he said shortly, turning to leave the room.

"What?!" Fred leapt up from the bed and followed him, leaning over his shoulder as George made his way down the narrow staircase to the shop. "I don't believe this…" he was muttering indignantly. "My own brother - ignoring me, thinking I'm a figment of his imagination -"

George paused at the bottom of the staircase, spinning round once he reached the door to the shop. He stared straight at the figment who looked so very much like himself.

"You're not real," he said simply. "You're dead. Fred's dead. You can't be here because Fred wouldn't have come back as a ghost, and if he had -" he took in a deep breath, the next words requiring more strength than he had expected. "If he had, he would have come to see me by now. He wouldn't have let me mourn him for a year, he wouldn't have left me on my own -"

"But, I -"

George did not listen to another word of what the dream-Fred was trying to say. Instead, he banged open the door and practically ran into the shop, flustered and upset and out of breath when he finally reached Lee, who was being bombarded by yelling children.

"Alright, alright! Calm down! Merlin's beard - just one minute, madam -" he spun away from the crowd, fighting his way out to George. "I've no idea what they're all doing here," he panted. "Some sort of exchange trip or something, most of them don't speak English."

It took a good twenty minutes to serve every one of the rowdy Spanish babble filling the shop to over-flowing. By the time the crowd had receded into Diagon Alley, their supervisor pointing emphatically in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron, Lee and George had collapsed behind the desk, exhausted.

"It appears," Lee observed, "that we've become a main tourist attraction." He got shakily to his feet, glancing around at the few customers left in the shop. "I think tea is in order, or maybe something stronger..." He gave George a weak grin, and headed for the stairs.

Someone snorted from a nearby stand. "Business still good, I see," said Fred, who moved to lean against the desk. "Although you two aren't half rubbish without me."

George let out a low groan. "I told you -"

"I know, I know, you've flipped, you're barking…" Fred rolled his eyes. "Well, this isn't exactly a barrel full of monkeys for me, either. I'm the one who has no ready excuse for why I'm here. And I am here," he said loudly. "I'm going to prove it to you." He turned away from his twin, examining the customers beadily. George watched him with a defeated expression on his face.

There was a short crack! behind them, and Lee reappeared, holding two Butterbeer bottles in his hands. "Couldn't be bothered with the stairs," he said lazily. "And I don't think it's too early for these, either." He handed one of the bottles to George, whose gaze had snapped round to his twin. Fred was now standing right in front of Lee, waving in his face.

"Hey! Lee! Hey - I'm here! Look at me, you great git - I'm standing right here!" Fred began prancing around his oblivious friend, waving his arms above his head and singing commands at Lee.

George grinned, working to suppress a laugh. Then he remembered that this ludicrous display was merely clinching proof that he was actually losing his mind. "Cut it out," he hissed.

"What?" Lee frowned at him.

"Er - nothing," George replied hastily, glancing at Fred, who had ceased trying to get Lee's attention. His twin was now simply stood staring at Lee with a very confused look on his face.

"Right," said Lee slowly, clearly unconvinced. He looked up at the short queue that had formed on the other side of the till. "Can you deal with these? I'm just going to check up on the Pygmy Puffs."

George nodded, and took the first customer's products from his outstretched hand, shoving them into a bag and running up the price. In order not to see Fred, who was still lingering by the desk, George avoided looking up at the people he was serving. All until one of them said, rather shortly, "Aren't you even going to say hello to your sister?"

His gaze flew upwards. "What? Oh - hi, Ginny."

Ginny's face wrinkled into an expression which showed that she was clearly not impressed. It reminded George so much of his mother's classic look of disapproval that he winced. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Fred still lingering by the desk, and so he forced himself to stay looking at Ginny, no matter how repellent her expression might be.

"Well," he said, trying to look cheerful, "what brings you to this neck of the woods?"

"Food," Ginny replied. "For Arnold."

"Still going strong, eh?"

"And - Mum's worried."

"Ah." George lowered his eyes to the desk again, packaging the Pygmy Puff's food into a brightly-coloured paper bag. "Well, things are just too busy around here for me to leave," he said lamely, still not looking at her.

Ginny watched him with concern in her eyes. "You know she's too busy to come here," she told him. "What with Percy's wedding and everything. I don't see why you can't just stay over for an evening. Everyone has to pitch in helping - she's even got Harry and Hermione to join in."

"Is Harry staying with us, then?" George was still avoiding looking anywhere but at the till. "Separate bedrooms, I hope."

"Yes," Ginny sighed. "And Hermione's sleeping in my room, so you don't have to worry about her and Ron, either."

George nodded approvingly, half-smiling at her.

There was a pause, in which Ginny drew in a deep breath. "Look, George," she began, "I know - I mean - just come home for a bit, won't you? Mum's already got enough on her plate with Percy, she doesn't need to be worrying about you as well. I mean, it's not like you can't - what on earth?"

George stared up from counting out her change, to see Ginny gazing, wide-eyed, at a stack of Headless Hats that appeared to be floating several inches off their stand.

"Is that you?" Ginny asked, still gazing at the hats.

"Er -" George hastily snatched up his wand from the desk, pointing it vaguely at the hats. He knew very well, however, that that would make little difference. He glared at Fred, who, unseen by Ginny, was the reason the hats were bobbing around in mid-air. "What are you doing?" he mouthed.

Fred had now placed one of the hats onto his own head, and was waving the others around at arm's length. "Proving that I exist!" he shouted back.

"George, what are you -?" Ginny turned back to her brother, who pointed his wand more purposefully at the hats.

"I - er -" he searched wildly for an excuse. "Just - just a bit of healthy levitation before lunch, Ginny…" He waved his wand emphatically towards the stand of hats, where Fred was now doubled-up, laughing at him. The hats had, mercifully, been returned to their place.

Ginny now had her hands on her hips. "Really, George, I can see why Mum's -"

"Don't start that again." George looked away from her, lifting the package off the desk with her change. "Here." He handed it to her. She didn't move. "Look," he began, with a defeated expression, "just tell Mum I'm fine, ok? I'll - I'll come home next week and help her sort out Percy's flower arrangements or something…"

Ginny beamed at him. "Alright," she said, taking the paper bag. "See you then." And she turned away, moving out of the shop into the bright Summer air outside.

There was a moment of odd silence. Fred had stopped laughing and was now leaning against the stand of Headless Hats, staring fixedly at his twin. George was staring right back.

"Er - Lee," he said suddenly. "I'm going for lunch now."

The boy with the dreadlocks peered out from behind a tottering pile of Canary Creams. "Bit early, isn’t it?"

"Yeah, I suppose," said George from the door to the flat. "But I didn't have any breakfast, so…"

"Fine," Lee called, but his reply was not heard by George, who merely dashed up the staircase, halted when he reached the bedroom and then spun around to face the figure behind him.

"Alright," he said, with something like fear in his voice. "What are you?"

Fred folded his arms. "Fine way to treat your long lost brother."

"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly sure that you are that," George replied, now holding out his wand. "So I'll be as rude as I like for now."

The figure who so much resembled Fred sighed. "Lovely. I come all the way back from the dead, and am greeted with nothing but interrogation." He paused, head on one side, thinking. "Alright," he drawled in a resigned tone. "Ask me something."

"What?"

"Ask me something. You know - they were obsessed with it when everyone was being Imperiused left, right and centre. To prove that I'm your brother - ask me something only I, being Fred, would know."

George frowned. His head was suddenly teeming with memories, most of which involving mischief of some variety. All of which, he realised with a lurch in his stomach, were memories of him and Fred. "Right," he said eventually. "Er, ok, here's one: how many O.W.L.s did we get overall?"

"Three each," the other replied instantly. "Satisfied?"

"No," George said. "You could have asked anyone that."

"Right," said Fred, with a heavy weight of sarcasm. "Because the other side is just full of people who know all about the O.W.L. results of Fred and George Weasley…"

"Shut up," George replied irritably, though he could feel himself start to laugh. "You know what I mean - I need something more personal. How about… what did we change Percy's Head Boy badge to?"

"Bighead Boy," said Fred, picking some dust off his robes. "And I changed his Prefect badge to Pinhead in our fourth year. At least try and make them difficult, then…"

George narrowed his eyes. "Ok. Why do you reckon your left buttock will never be the same?"

"Ha!" Fred laughed. "Because we tried to get Ron to make an Unbreakable Vow when he was little." His freckled face was split by a wide grin. "And Dad went mental…" he finished reminiscently.

"Yeah," said George, caught up in the same memory. "Alright, but I'm still not convinced. How did we steal the Marauder's Map from Filch's office?"

"You dropped a Dungbomb and I grabbed it out of the filing cabinet."

"What did you want to be called on Potterwatch?"

"Rapier."

"But what did Lee call you?"

"Rodent."

"What did you call me when I lost my ear?"

"So many names, so little time…"

"Alright, alright - why did Kenneth Towler -"

"- come out in boils in our fifth year?"

"Er - yeah..."

"Because I put Bulbadox Powder in his pyjamas."

"I had a dream about that recently."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah… except it was my pyjamas. Lee thought it was hilarious."

For a moment, the two of them simply stood grinning at each other across the room, neither one really wanting to say anything that might ruin the moment. The misery of the past few days - the past year, in fact - had vanished within a few minutes' nostalgia, and it was because of this that George did not want to ask the question waving frantically at him from inside his mind.

"Why are you here?" he said, finally. "I mean - how are you here?"

"Ah," said Fred. "That's the one I can’t answer, I'm afraid. I thought that might have something to do with you."

"Me?"

"Yeah, maybe a summoning or something," he began, then found himself unable to continue. He shrugged. "So… tried summoning anything lately?"

George raised an eyebrow. "Not that I'm aware of," he said slowly.

"Right, well…" Fred shrugged again, apparently content without an explanation. "Fact is - I'm here, aren't I?" He grinned across the room at George, who managed a half-hearted smile back.

"Thing is," George said hesitantly, "if you were a ghost, then other people could see you as well. Which, it seems… they can't."

"Mmh," said Fred, unconcerned. "Funny, that… Maybe you should ask someone."

George snorted. "Yeah, right. Like who? Mum already thinks I'm barking enough as it is!" He half-laughed at his words, but then noticed that a shadow had crossed Fred's face at the word "Mum". His smile evaporated.

As though to avoid discussing the awkward lapse in mood, Fred moved over to a set of shelves by his bed and began peering into boxes and books arranged there, various expressions flicking across his face.

"You kept all my letters!" he exclaimed, pointing to the contents of a shoebox. "All the ones from Angelina…" He pulled out a few faded pieces of parchment and his eyes swept rapidly over the words. A faint smile tugged at his mouth as he reached the bottom of one page and turned to the next. He looked up at George. "How is she, nowadays?" he asked, and the shadow that had appeared at the mention of his mother still lingered in his eyes.

George shrugged, finding himself suddenly unable to meet his brother's gaze. "Um… fine," he managed feebly. "Yeah, she's got a job near here, actually."

"Oh yeah?" Fred raised his eyebrows.

"Working in that Quidditch supplies place with old Bandersnatch," George continued, a little more casually. Then he frowned. "She came in here the other day - something about her boss being a bit paranoid…"

Fred laughed, placing the letters carefully back into the shoebox. "Doesn't surprise me," he said with a reminiscent air. "Do you remember when he chased us out of the shop with an army of angry Bludgers, just because we set all those Snitches loose by accident?"

"Ha - I'd forgotten that…" George muttered. Then, louder, "It wasn't by accident! You wanted to see how many we could get into the air before they all started bumping into each other!"

Fred's face split into a wide grin. "Oh yeah - how many was that, anyway?"

"Twenty-six, at the last count."

"Right… so why did we keep going up to seventy-eight?"

"Don't know. Just to annoy him, I think."

Fred's grin grew even wider. "And that would be the reason why my right buttock will never be the same."

"George?" Lee was banging on the door again, a mildly confused tone to his words. "Who're you talking to, mate?"

George's grin vanished. "Erm, no one…" he cast around for an excuse. Fred's almighty shrug did not help. "I was just, er - I was -"

"Doesn't matter," Lee interrupted. "Look, Angelina's here again. And I'm pretty sure she's not just after Decoy Detonators, seeing as I already gave her some ten minutes ago and she still hasn't left."

"Er - right…" George replied, staring everywhere to avoid looking at Fred. "I'll be right down."

He spun round on the spot and vanished, Apparating right behind the desk downstairs and, it transpired, only inches from Angelina. She looked distraught.

"George! I'm so sorry, I wouldn't bother you, but -" she began, her dark eyes wide and her face stricken.

"Um, it's no problem," George mumbled, his gaze flicking madly around the room, watching for the possible appearance of Fred. His twin had not followed him into the shop yet. "What's the matter? You look really -"

"George, look -" Angelina began, speaking almost unintelligibly fast. "You know when I came in the other day to buy those spy glasses? Well, it turns out, he wasn't just being paranoid - my boss, that is - and he really wanted them to watch the person who's been leaving all those threatening notes (they weren't using owls in case they were traced). And I think he must have found out about them, because there was a break-in last night, and -"

"Whoa, slow down!" Lee had just come back down the stairs, and was walking towards Angelina, frowning intensely. "There was a break-in? At the Quidditch store?"

"Yes," said Angelina desperately. "They took his notes, his diary, the letters - everything. Completely trashed the place, and that's not even the worst thing…" For once, she seemed unable to say any more, but instead twisted her fingers together, her eyes moving from George to Lee in rapid succession.

George had a funny feeling that he really didn't want to know the answer to his next question. "What is the worst thing, Angelina?"

The girl stared at him. "He's dead."

"And things just got interesting…"

George's gaze whipped round to see Fred leaning against the edge of the desk. He ignored him.

"What do you mean, 'he's dead'?" he asked Angelina, who now had tears in her eyes. "Who - your boss?"

The girl nodded. "We found him this morning - well, not me, one of the guys who works there. Said he was just lying splayed out in the middle of the shop floor, surrounded by all the wreckage. It looks like there was a bit of a fight."

"Are the Aurors there?" Lee asked her.

"What? No, I don't think so… not yet, anyway," Angelina pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and began wiping her face. She sniffed. "I'm not even sure if they'll be called in. A lot of people seem to think he just got a bit too upset about someone hanging around the shop or something - they all know how paranoid he is, you see. I mean 'was'." She sniffed again. "Oh, look at me," she said in a clearer voice, shaking her head as though to stop herself crying. "Getting so upset about it, I didn't even really like the guy -" She clapped a hand to her mouth, the tears reappearing. "Oh God, I know that's a terrible thing to say about someone who's just died…"

"Don't worry about it," George said consolingly, putting his arm around her. "He once tried to kill me for accidentally setting free a couple of Snitches." From somewhere behind him came a snort. "I don't think anyone'll really miss him."

"Great," said Angelina sarcastically, frowning at George. "That makes me feel so much better." She sighed. "Do you think that's why no one's taking his death seriously? I mean - nobody I've spoken to seems to want to hear about the stuff that's been stolen."

"Yeah, probably…" said George slowly. Then it was his turn to frown, putting his head on one side and narrowing his eyes. "What about that, anyway? I mean, how do you know the stuff was nicked?"

Angelina blew her nose into the handkerchief. "I saw the journal there just the other day, he was scribbling something into it. And I knew it wasn't the accounts book or the records or anything. Plus," she lowered her voice slightly, the other two leaning closer to hear her. "One of the neighbours said they heard this strange rattling, squeaking sound coming from the house some time this morning - about one or two o'clock. They said it sounded like a load of Sneakoscopes being set off, and, well - I'm willing to bet that that's exactly what it was. He had loads of them, and other Dark Detectors set up around the place." She now had a sort of determined tone in her voice. "It was murder. I'm sure of it. He was paranoid about something, and I think it - or they - finally caught up with him. The only question is," here she looked meaningfully from George to Lee, "who, and why?"

All three of them were quiet for a moment, contemplating Angelina's words and the possibility of such a thing having occurred. A murder? Of the bloke who ran the Quidditch supplies place? Why on earth would anyone want to do that?

With the other two distracted by this thought, George risked a look behind him at Fred. His twin was still leaning against the stand, watching the three of them with an unreadable expression. His eyes were lingering on Angelina. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, George shifted his gaze sideways and noticed what it was that Fred was standing beside - the black and yellow boxes of spy glasses.

A thought struck him. "Um, Angelina?" The girl looked up. "Do you know if he had time to set up those -" he pointed to the spy glasses "- because they would probably tell us something…" He knew the answer before she began her response.

"They smashed them, whoever they were," she said grimly. "Another piece of evidence that this wasn't just an accident. The Ministry've just seen a messed-up shop, they haven't noticed that the only things that were destroyed in his flat are the Dark Detectors and his spying equipment. No one would bother going upstairs to destroy all that stuff if they were just in it for a laugh, or if it was an accident. They wouldn't know it was there in the first place, unless…" she trailed off, a slightly misty look in her eyes. "Unless they worked for him. Or knew him, and had been there before. That's the only way they could know about the spy stuff, or his log books, or anything else." She sighed again, and uttered the question all three (four including Fred) had been thinking. "But why kill him? I mean, I know he annoyed people, but surely there was no motive to murder him?"

Lee shrugged. "Maybe - all his spying and stuff had ticked off the Ministry?" he suggested. "And that's why they're not putting much effort into the case, because it was them who did it?"

"It's possible, I suppose…" breathed Angelina, moving away from the other two. She began chewing her bottom lip in a thoughtful manner. "Or maybe he was caught spying on someone in a higher place?"

The bell behind them jangled into life and several customers rushed into the shop, all of them looking excited and chattering noisily. George blinked himself out of his reverie. "Um, sorry, Angelina," he began feebly. "Work, you know…" The girl nodded resignedly, turning towards the door. She still looked so miserable and confused that George found he didn't want her to leave. "Look -" he called, catching her just before she left the shop. "We'll think about this, ok? Let us know what the Ministry decide, and, you know - we've had experience solving mysteries before," he smiled reassuringly. "Come back and tell us what happens."

The last sentence didn't come out quite as casually as he had wanted it to, and he thought there was something knowing about Angelina's smile as she swept out of the shop. He suddenly cringed, feeling his insides shrivel, and did everything he possibly could not to look at Fred.

Feeling too dizzy to Apparate, he dashed upstairs.

"Hey!" Lee called after him. "You're leaving me with these -"

"Sorry!" George yelled back. "Back in a moment." He hurried into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him to stop Fred following. Too late.

"What was that?" Fred was standing by the sink, his mouth tight, his eyes hard.

George tried to look as though he had no idea why his twin might be so angry. "What?" he asked, though without any conviction.

Fred raised an eyebrow. "What?" he said acidly. "Ignoring me, for one. Putting your arm around her, whispering in her ear. 'Come back and tell us what happens!' Staring after her like some lovesick puppy."

"I really don't know what you're talking about," George replied, and he sounded like he meant it this time. "Angelina and I are old friends - you know that. I didn't treat her any differently than I did at school."

"There's a difference," Fred snapped, and George was alarmed at how annoyed he looked. He didn't think Fred had ever looked so angry with him in his whole life. "Angelina and I weren't as close when we were at school." Fred folded his arms. "What exactly have you two been up to while I've been - you know - dead?"

George now looked something close to horrified. "It's not like that!" he exclaimed. "Really, it's not. The first time I've seen her since - since then, was yesterday. She's my friend and she was upset. What was I supposed to do?" He stared pleadingly at his twin. "I mean it, it wasn't like that. She was your girlfriend."

"Right," said Fred quietly, but he was no longer looking at George. His next words sounded bitter. "Anything else I've missed?" he asked, staring around the tiny bathroom. "Lee going out with a Hungarian Horntail?"

"Percy's getting married," George said quickly. This seemed to instantly lighten Fred's mood.

"No way," he laughed. "Percy?! Since when?"

George grinned. "He's really changed, you wouldn't believe it. It's like the last three years never happened. You remember how hopelessly romantic he was about that Clearwater girl in our fourth year?"

Fred nodded, smirking. "Don't know if you'd exactly describe it as 'romantic'," he said. "More just 'hopeless'."

"Well," George continued, "he met this girl in his new job. Stephanie Millground, I think she's called. He's still at the Ministry, but in a different department," he added, seeing Fred's curious expression. "And he decided he'd be all romantic again, and asked her to marry him after about six weeks."

"Probably knew that if he waited any longer she'd figure out what he was actually like," Fred joked, but it sounded half-hearted. To hide the slight frown creeping across his face, he asked, "When did this happen?"

"About two months ago," George said. "Mum's been a nightmare, as you can imagine." Once again, the mention of Mum had earned Fred an even deeper frown. George bit his lip. "But everyone's mostly really excited. Hey - maybe you could come to the wedding."

Fred laughed, but the sound was a little sour. "Yeah, maybe… Hey, um, how's Verity, by the way? I've noticed she doesn't work here anymore."

"Oh," George looked a little taken aback by the question. "Er, well, I haven't really seen her since before the war ended. After her parents' place was attacked - you remember?" Fred nodded. "Well, after that she sort of just wanted to be with the rest of her family. We never really officially broke up, but… she sent me a few letters, but then stopped replying to mine. It's been a bit difficult catching up with people, you know? Most people -" he stopped, as though only just realising what he was saying. Then he sighed. If he couldn't talk about it to Fred, who could he talk to? "Most people avoid me because of what happened to you," he said quickly.

His twin frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know…" George shrugged. "They all just look at me like I might suddenly burst into tears at any minute. Or burst into flame, I don't know. Angelina - when she came in the other day - was exactly the same. She had this really sympathetic look in her eyes and she was asking me how I was feeling and…" he trailed off. "Lee's the only one who's been relatively normal. He came to see me a few weeks after - after it all ended, offered to help me keep the shop going." He suddenly tapped the side of his head, where a dark patch marked the place where his ear should be. "And they all can't keep their eyes off this, either," he groaned. "I'd put a glamour or something on it, if I wasn't so proud." He grinned, and, to his relief, Fred grinned back.

"I think it's very becoming," Fred said. Then, "Well - don't you have work to do? A shop to run? My memory to keep alive?" An accusatory look suddenly crossed his face. "You haven't changed the shop name, have you?"

"No!" George cried, sounding slightly offended. "Of course not."

"Good," said Fred, relieved. "Because 'Weasley and Jordan's Wizard Wheezes' sounds rubbish." He made a shooing gesture. "Right, off you go. Earn us some money."

George's grin widened, then went out of the bathroom and towards the stairs. "Aren't you coming?" he queried, seeing that Fred was now sitting on the end of his bed instead of following him.

"Nah." Fred put his hands behind his head and leant back nonchalantly. "It's a bit boring being invisible. I can't talk to anyone - or you, because people'll think you're a nutter." His green eyes swept over the ceiling.

"What, can't you leave the shop?" George asked him. "I'd've thought being invisible would be your dream power…"

Fred laughed. "Yeah, it probably would be, as well. But no, for some reason I can't go out of the shop. I tried - thought I'd have a wander down Diagon Alley, for old times' sake, you know. But, as I got further away I felt sort of… wobbly."

"Wobbly?" George wrinkled his nose.

"Yeah…" Fred tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Wobbly." He shrugged. "So I think I think I'll just stay up here, if that's alright with you. All my stuff's still here, I'll just stay and - I don’t know - reminisce."

He flashed his twin a mischievous smile, though as George turned to go back downstairs, he had the uncomfortable impression that the smile hadn't quite reached Fred's eyes.

~***~

They still had not heard anything from Angelina two days later, but that didn't stop George and Lee discussing the murder of Mr. Bandersnatch, the Quidditch supplies shop manager, whenever they had a spare moment.

"Do you really think it was murder?"

"Definitely - didn't you hear what Angelina said about the log books?"

"D'you reckon he really was being watched?"

"After all those threatening notes? Blackmailed, more like."

"Do you really think so?"

"Well, he was paranoid about something, wasn't he? And then there were all those rumours about him storing stuff for goblins all those years ago."

"What?" George had slammed his cup down onto the desk in surprise, simultaneously frightening a small girl who had been waiting for Lee to hand over her change. He grinned apologetically at the girl, but this just seemed to make her even more terrified. She grabbed the money from Lee and ran out of the shop.

Lee sat back in his chair. "Yeah, a couple of years back," he told George, with the air of recanting a childhood memory, "there was all this stuff in the Prophet about a local 'broomstick vendor' (it was obviously him, by the way) being asked to hold some important items for Gringotts. I think, but I'm not sure, that Dumbledore was involved. This would have been, oh, right before he - you know - died, I think. Anyway - it wasn't really to do with Dumbledore, I think they just stuck a well-known name in there to make the story seem interesting. Apparently the stuff being held used to belong to him, I don't know. They probably made it up - associating Dumbledore with goblins and other suspicious creatures was something they used to do a lot." Lee took a long gulp of tea and set his empty mug down on the desk. "I mean, it could be that he wouldn't give the stuff back and the goblins got a bit riled. Trashing a shop is exactly the sort of thing they'd do if they were really desperate to find something."

George said nothing, turning over Lee's words in his mind. If there really were goblins involved, then things would certainly become a lot more dangerous if he, Lee and Angelina started trying to dig things up about them. What Angelina had said about the shopkeeper being paranoid about somebody watching him would definitely fit: when the goblins had been tailing Bagman about the Quidditch World Cup money they had followed him everywhere.

He felt a pang as he thought about the Quidditch World Cup - how he and Fred had bet all that money and never got it back. He and Fred.

"I'm, um, going on my lunch break now," he told Lee, standing up.

"Right," the other replied, staring at a group of boys hovering around the Fake Wands. "Do they look suspicious to you?" he asked vaguely. George shrugged, then Apparated upstairs.

Fred was lying on his bed, surrounded by heaps of folded parchment. George didn't have to look any closer to know that they were Angelina's old letters.

"Oi," said his twin roughly. "Knock before entering." He rolled over to look at George and his face split into a grin. "How's business?"

George took in a deep breath, sinking down onto his own bed. "Fine," he replied. "Lee told me something interesting about Mr. Quidditch supplies corpse."

"Oh yeah?" Fred raised an eyebrow, sitting up and pushing the letters aside.

"Yep. Apparently there was all this stuff in the Daily Prophet a couple of years ago about him and some goblins. He was storing stuff for them. Lee reckons they might have wanted it back."

Fred nodded perceptively. "Yeah, well, we know what they're like when they want something, don't we? Remember Bagman?"

"That's exactly what I was thinking," said George. "And Lee says he thinks Dumbledore might have been involved."

"Dumbledore?" Fred was now frowning hard at the floor. Then he got up, moved over to the shelves by his bed and pulled out a large, leather-bound scrapbook. He flipped it open to a page covered in black scribbles and random boxes, grabbed a quill from his bedside table and began writing.

George eyed him curiously. "What's that?"

"It's all the stuff about the murder," Fred replied, still scrawling. He looked up at his brother's raised eyebrows. "What? I need something to do, don't I?"

"Turned private eye, have you?"

Fred laughed. "Well, being that nobody can see or hear me, and I can watch whoever I want," he said, "I think I pretty much embody the title."

The summer had been fighting off the clouds for several days, but had finally given in. A series of black and grey brushstrokes now criss-crossed the sky, and the heat that had kept so many holidaymakers outside was fading fast. George shivered as he pulled shut the shop door after another long day, watching the rain clouds sweep their dusty colour over the evening sun.

He moved back into the shop, where Lee was clearing away boxes from under the desk, and his gaze glanced up at the ceiling. Fred would, undoubtedly, still be up there, mulling over the murder case or re-reading Angelina's letters for the hundredth time. He felt something jolt in his stomach. It was wonderful having Fred back; the day of the Battle for Hogwarts he had felt an immeasurable sense of loss - more so, he believed, than anyone else who had lost friends or family during the war. It sounded clichéd even to think it, but George was sure that a whole half of him had gone with Fred, and he had been convinced that he would never feel the same again. Being able to see his brother again was fantastic - to hear him joke and laugh and finish George's sentences…

But there was a part of George - a part he tried very hard to suppress - that felt that maybe Fred wasn't as happy being here as George was to see him again. Fred had never said anything, he had always seemed delighted to be around his twin and loved to reminisce about their glory days of rule-breaking. But that was all that they seemed to do - reminisce. Even though Fred was here, he was never really here - he belonged somewhere else, and George had spent the last year of his life trying to convince himself that Fred was happier there, and that he, George, had a life to keep living alone. Every time he saw the shadow that crossed Fred's face whenever he mentioned the rest of the Weasleys, or Angelina, he felt a pang of guilt - as though it was he, George, who was keeping Fred from moving on, who was forcing him to take a back seat and watch a life play out before him that he could never have.

And there was another curious thing: why was it that no one else could see Fred, only him? If he was truly a ghost, then why wasn't he see-through and why couldn't he float through walls? He had never once, in his life, heard of a ghost that only one person could see. During a few mad moments, George had considered writing to Hermione to ask if she had ever come across such a phenomenon. But then he thought that she might query as to why he was asking her such a question, and to explain that he was having visions of his dead twin could not possibly lead to anything good.

"Hey!" Lee's voice broke into his thoughts. "I just found this under here - d'you want it?" George looked round to see that his friend had emerged from under the desk, and was holding out a battered photograph to him. He took it and stared down at the crumpled image - it was a picture of him and Fred.

Their strange clothes and the sandy background, not to mention how young they looked, told him that this had been taken five years ago during their holiday in Egypt. He and Fred were waving enthusiastically from the front of the picture, each sporting a mischievous grin, whilst Percy was in the background, lingering behind a pillar with a nervous expression on his sunburnt face. The George holding the picture smiled.

"Right," Lee announced, heading for the door. "I'm off, now. Need anything?"

George shook his head, and his friend departed. "See you tomorrow," Lee called back.

"Yeah," George said vaguely. "See you." After a few moments, he tore his eyes away from the picture and Apparated upstairs. He moved over to a jumbled notice-board behind his bed and pinned the crumpled photograph between a couple of tattered newspaper articles. He took a step back to admire the effect, and smiled again.

"Very nice," came a voice from behind him. "Egypt, wasn't it?" Fred had moved to stand beside his twin, and was peering at the photograph with narrowed eyes. "Didn't we lock Percy in a pyramid?"

George smirked. "We tried to, but Mum wouldn't let us," he said with a grin. "Don't you remember?"

Fred said nothing, still staring at the photo. "I don't really remember that holiday at all, to be honest," he muttered. "Seems like a century ago."

"It was only about five years," his twin corrected, frowning at Fred. "It was after Dad won the prize draw at the Ministry. D'you remember - Ron bought a Sneakoscope for Harry and it kept going off at dinner because we put beetles in Bill's soup?"

Fred now had a very strange look on his face, as though he was struggling to picture what George was saying. "I don't remember any of that," he said slowly. Then he moved to sit down on the edge of his bed, a far-away expression in his eyes. "Actually," he began in a subdued voice, "this has been happening quite a lot to me recently. I keep… I keep forgetting things."

He looked up at George, who was looking rather anxious. "Forgetting things?"

"Yeah." Fred stared at the floor. "Like that holiday. I can only remember odd bits of it. And the other day when you were talking about Dumbledore, I was trying to remember what he looked like and I couldn't. Or any of the other teachers. Or our first day there."

"Even the Sorting Hat couldn't tell us apart," George said, but there was no air of nostalgia in his words this time. There was a concern in his face that made him look as though he was on the verge of tears. "But - when you first came back you could remember everything."

"I know," said Fred, somewhat miserably. "It all seemed like it'd only happened a few days ago, but now everything seems a million years away. It's why I've been reading all these letters, looking through all the stuff I left behind. Trying to bring it all back." He shrugged. "I don't know why I can't remember," he added, and his words held a tinge of bitterness. "And that's just top of the list of things I don't know at the moment - like why I'm here, for a start…"

George didn't know what to say. He hovered by the notice-board, occasionally throwing a glance at the photograph of him and Fred in Egypt. The glances seemed to say that he was regretting putting it up there.

Yet another minute of very awkward silence blanketed the room. Then Fred looked up. "Look," he began, with the air of someone making a firm and deliberate change of subject, "I've been thinking about the case - Mr. Bandersnatch's death, you know."

George nodded. "And?"

"And," Fred pulled his scrapbook from his bedside table, upsetting a pile of Wizarding detective novels entitled The Carter Sparks Mysteries, "it just doesn't make sense that it would be the goblins who killed him."

"Why not?"

Fred flipped open the book and his eyes flicked over a scribbled list. "Because if he knew that the goblins were the ones watching him - blackmailing him, even - then why did he need the spying equipment to figure out who was leaving the notes? If it was the goblins, they'd have made it pretty clear: if they wanted their money, they wouldn't have been all secretive about it, they'd've just demanded it from him face to face. No - if someone was sending him anonymous notes it had to be for another reason. Why bother recording a break-in if he knew who did it?"

He stared up at his twin, a rather earnest look on his face. But George shook his head.

"Maybe… maybe he was just recording it for evidence?" he suggested slowly. "Maybe he was afraid the goblins were going to do something to him, and he wanted proof? Maybe it was a cover-up - to make people think he didn't know who was blackmailing him so they wouldn't link it to the goblins?"

It was Fred's turn to shake his head. "Nah, old Banders wasn't that kind of bloke. If that was the case, then why keep the log books, the diaries? I reckon he was the kind of man who'd want the world to know he was in trouble, to prove his paranoia wasn't just madness. He'd have told someone - he did tell someone, but then the evidence was destroyed. Which, again, isn't the sort of thing a goblin would do. I mean, I know they're clever, but would they think to go upstairs? To find his diaries and rip them up, to trash the Sneakoscopes? I reckon they'd've just taken what they wanted and left. It's all too organised, it doesn't make sense…"

He sighed, lying back on the bed and gnawing at his lower lip in a thoughtful manner. "What do you think?" he said eventually.

"I think," said George, "that you have plenty of time on your hands and a lot of thinking to do. Lee saw Angelina yesterday and she said she's coming round tomorrow." He pointed a finger at Fred, and said in a mock serious voice, "And, Carter Sparks, I want a conclusion by then."

~***~

It was Friday morning, and the first time George had properly looked in the mirror for about a week. Since the dreams about Fred had started up again, he had avoided doing so, because the face in the glass looked, obviously, so identical to his twin's that he had imagined it actually was Fred staring back at him. He frowned, and watched thin lines creep across his freckled forehead. His eyes lingered on the place at the side of his head where his ear should have been.

He decided that, in the rules of what was generally socially acceptable, five days was too long to go without having a shower. Especially as he had promised his mother he would go home for the weekend. He wondered vaguely if Fred would want to come back to the Burrow with him as he pulled off his robes, and suddenly became aware of something cold hanging around his neck. He stared up into the mirror.

It was the necklace. The one that so much resembled the Good Vibrations charms sold in the shop, the one with the black beads instead of yellow. His forehead creased even deeper. Had he really been wearing it since Monday? Why hadn't he noticed it was still there?

In an almost irritable manner, he tugged it from around his neck and dropped it onto the bathroom shelf.

Ten minutes later, he stumbled down the stairs, tousle-haired and his eyes still blinking away steam, to see Lee deep in conversation with one of the customers. It was Angelina.

"Hey," she called when she saw him. The shock of her boss' death had evidently gone, and the idiosyncratic briskness had returned to her voice. "I was just telling Lee - I can't believe it - the Ministry aren't going to investigate his death."

"What?" All the morning sleepiness vanished from George's mind in a moment. "They aren't - but - why?"

Angelina shrugged. "I have no idea," she said. "I really don't. This is looking more and more like murder every day. Apparently," she lowered her voice slightly to a conspiratorial level, "Mr. Bandersnatch's solicitor had a word with the goblins at Gringotts and they're refusing to say anything about what Mr. Bandersnatch had been holding for them. They refuse to even acknowledge that they were involved - but it's stirred up quite a lot. The Prophet wrote about it in his obituary, and they sounded like they were pretty keen to know more as well."

"What - about what the goblins had to do with it?" Lee had his head on one side, a dark hand scratching at his jaw thoughtfully.

"Mmh," Angelina nodded. "Them and the rest of Gringotts. No one's saying a word. Rumours are that the Prophet even tried to get at Dumbledore's portrait at Hogwarts, but the staff wouldn't let them in."

"They're still dragging Dumbledore into this?" George asked, looking alarmed. He risked a quick glance around the shop, trying to gauge whether Fred had followed him downstairs. His twin was nowhere to be seen.

"Yep," the girl told him, "they just won't let go of this goblin story. The Ministry are trying their hardest to make it seem like an accident, and the Prophet want to turn it into some sort of huge conspiracy. I don't know who to believe."

George looked back at her. "Well," he said quietly, "we've - I mean, I've - been thinking about it and I don't reckon it's got anything to do with goblins at all."

"How come?" Both Lee and Angelina were now frowning at him. He wished Fred was here to remind him of what he was supposed to say.

"Well," he began tentatively. "It's all to do with the way the murder took place. If goblins had been involved, he would have been torn apart, don't you think? And the goblins wouldn't have bothered to trash the Sneakoscopes and stuff - they would have just taken what they wanted and left. It's all too - organised."

Lee nodded. "Yeah… yeah, you're right. Bloody Ministry - I thought things might've changed since - you know. With Kingsley in charge."

"It's the new head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement," Angelina said gravely. "Wants to hush it all up to stop the public panicking." She scowled, then stared meaningfully from George to Lee. "Look - I'm going back to have a look at the crime scene," she said suddenly. "And I want you two to come with me."

Lee's eyebrows shot right up under his drooping dreadlocks. "You're not serious?" he said in a rather awed voice. "Trespassing on property? Investigating a murder?" He leaned forward, peering at her with a suspicious expression. "Who are you?"

Angelina rolled her eyes. "Shut up," she said playfully. "Besides, it's not their property if they're not investigating his death. It's our shop, for the time being, seeing as Bandersnatch didn't have any family. Until they find his will, it belongs to the other workers. I can come and go as I please." Her voice took on a more serious note as she said, "Now - the Ministry are clearing away their own stuff from the scene this afternoon. So I reckon we go there tonight after everywhere else is closed and have a proper look." She glanced from George to Lee. "What do you think?"

George stared around the shop again, trying to look casual, but really scanning the room for his twin. 'I'll have to tell him when I get back upstairs,' he thought dully. Then said, out loud, "Absolutely. Trespassing, investigation - I'm in."

"Me too," Lee grinned. "So - what's the plan?"

"Right," Angelina began, sounding heartened. "We meet here about ten o'clock, it should be dark enough then to cover us, but still light enough that we won't have to use our wands to see. We'll go over to the shop and take a look around - I know a spell that should -" She stopped short. Three more customers had just come bouncing into the shop.

She turned to go. "Ten o'clock," she mouthed, flashing the two of them a wide smile before she shut the shop door behind her.

George felt slightly dizzied, and for a moment he found his legs were somewhat rooted to the spot. He shook his head, as though trying to clear it of dust. 'I've got to tell Fred,' he thought.

"Give me a minute!" he shouted, seeing Lee's puzzled expression as he raced towards the staircase. He burst into the bedroom, a delighted grin on his face. "Fred! Fred - Angelina wants us to look round the shop tonight - it'll be like old times, you know, sneaking about and -" He stopped. "Fred? Where are you?"

The bedroom before him was empty, and Fred was nowhere to be seen.

"Fred?"

George stared wildly around the room. He dashed first into the bathroom, then into the kitchen, then back downstairs to double-check the shop.

"What the hell are you doing?" cried Lee as George came bursting through the door. "I can hear you thundering around upstairs like a heard of Hippogriffs!"

"Sorry," George panted, a sickening knot forming in his stomach as he noted that Fred wasn't in the shop either. "I've, er - lost something."

Lee did not looked contented. "Yeah, well, find it soon, will you? They're getting rowdy in here."

George nodded, then spun on one foot and Apparated back upstairs. In his haste, he had not really thought about where he was going, and had wound up in the bathroom instead. He paused, thinking hard, then slumped down to sit on the edge of the bath, holding his head in his hands.

'He had to go sometime,' a very unwelcome voice spoke up from the back of his head. 'It couldn't have lasted forever…'

He had been so pleased to have Fred back and he hadn't even properly realised it. He had kept telling himself that it wasn't real and that Fred didn't really belong here, just to make it easier for when Fred, eventually, had to leave. Had he ever really been here at all? He had not been as transparent as a ghost, that was sure, and he certainly hadn't been able to walk through walls. But he had never really looked fully alive, either. There had still been a bit of haziness to his outline, a bit of distance to his voice.

'But why leave now?' George found himself thinking. 'Why come here on Tuesday morning, stay for a couple of days and then disappear again? Fred hadn't known how he'd got here - or so he'd told me, he hadn't seemed too keen to discuss it - so who was the one sending him here and then pulling him back?'

For a daft moment, he thought it actually might have been himself. 'My dreams,' he thought. 'I started having dreams about him again and then he comes back. There has to be a link… But I didn't summon him, I'm pretty sure of that.'

He began thinking over the events of last Monday, running through his head everything that had happened after he had woken up from the dream about Fred stealing stuff from Zonko's again. He stared around the bathroom for inspiration. He had been in a bit of a hurry, so he hadn't washed properly. He had splashed water over his face, he had not looked in the mirror, he had - wait a minute…

His eyes lighted on something lying on the bathroom shelf. It was thin and gold and glittering, dotted with black beads and bits of glass. 'That was the day,' he thought with a sudden shock of realisation, 'that was the day someone sent that back to the shop. That was the day I put it on and didn't realise I was still wearing it until this morning. And Fred came back that night and was gone again after I'd had a shower today - after I'd taken it off again today!'

Without another moment's thought, he leapt up and grabbed the necklace from the shelf. It twinkled mysteriously at him in the morning light, as though hinting that it knew something that George didn't.

"It's worth a try," he muttered. "The worst that'll happen is I look a bit stupid."

He took in a deep breath, and slung the chain around his neck.

~***~

It was bizarre seeing King's Cross this quiet. Fred felt a vague sense of déjà vu as he as stared blearily around the platform, watching the smoke overhead drift lazily above him. The train would surely be here any minute, and then he would be back where he belonged…

He slumped down onto the cast-iron bench which was sat facing the railway line. The past few days spent with George were already beginning to feel like an odd dream, and he was having a hard time convincing himself that they had been real. It was probably better that way, he decided. Better not to dwell on dreams.

"Back again, so soon?" a familiar voice asked, and Fred became aware that someone was sat next to him. A man with white hair, and a beard which trailed almost to the floor, was peering at him over half-moon spectacles.

"I suppose so," Fred said vaguely. "Doesn't really feel like I ever left, to be honest."

Dumbledore gave him a small and knowing smile. "Time does seem to lose its significance on this side, I'm afraid." He moved his gaze slowly to observe the empty platform.

Fred hoped he wasn't going to say anything about how cruel it was that he and George had been split apart at such a young age. That was what the other one had said - the long-lost relative who had come to collect him the last time. Only, at that moment, confirmation that he was never going to see George again hadn't exactly been what he had wanted to hear.

He looked again at the railway line. "Train's taking a bit longer this time," he commented quietly.

The man next to him nodded. "I think that may be because it knows you aren't going to get on it."

"What?" Fred frowned, wondering if he had misheard what Dumbledore had said. "Not get on it? How else am I going to get back?"

Dumbledore turned to face him properly, and his expression was suddenly rather commanding. "Your friends are on the right track," he said seriously. "But I don't think they, or even you, realise the severity of what you have become involved in. Your brother will need your advice, your help. For your reappearance has a great deal to do with it all."

Fred snorted. "Right. Fat lot of good I am, I can't even leave the shop."

"You can't leave him," Dumbledore corrected. "Your reappearance is connected with your brother, and so to go too far, not from the shop, but from him, would cause you to… well…"

"Go a bit wobbly, yeah," Fred nodded. The man with the half-moon spectacles gave him a warm smile.

"I was going to say 'would cause the connection between you to loosen, and therefore your spectral presence to become weaker'. Although, I rather think your phrase does the trick quite as well." Dumbledore winked at him, and Fred suddenly felt his bewilderment begin to dissipate.

"I must admit," Dumbledore continued, "I never envisaged entrusting such an important task to Hogwarts' most infamous rule-breakers…" He gave Fred a rather shrewd look, and the latter grinned. "But then, I was never really one for the rules myself."

Fred studied the man's face for a moment. "You said my reappearance has something to do with it… What do you mean by that?"

Dumbledore smiled. "You're on the right track," he said. Then, "Good luck, Mr. Weasley."

His brilliant blue eyes twinkled and suddenly Fred felt faintly sick. A moment later, he could see nothing at all.

~***~

"Harry was right - he can't half be confusing sometimes…"

"Fred! Fred, you're back - er, what?"

Fred was gazing past his twin with a dazed look on his face. "Er, nothing… Um - what? What am I doing here, again? Was I asleep or something? I dreamt it, didn't I?"

"No, no - you weren't asleep, you were gone! Just vanished!" George explained hurriedly. "Look - I think I've figured it out -"

"Vanished?" Fred looked bemused. "I thought I was going back."

"Well, you might have been, but -"

"I was on the platform and everything, same as before…"

"Yes, you probably were going back to the other side, or wherever, but the point is -"

"It all felt like a dream, you know? And when I was talking to -"

"It's the necklace!" George shouted, with a triumphant air. "It's this necklace - it must be. This is the reason why you're here!"

He pointed vigorously at the chain around his neck. Fred, alarmed at this sudden outburst, stared at it dubiously. "That's the reason why I'm here?" he said, not bothering to disguise his disbelief. "Looks a bit tacky to me. Isn't it one of those charms that went wrong?"

George shook his head. "I thought so too," he said earnestly, "but it's not. I don't really know what it is, to be honest, but - someone sent it back to the shop on Monday with some other stuff. They sent it in this box all wrapped up and I thought they were just sending it back because it didn't work - remember the ones that turned black during testing?" Fred nodded, and George went on, "Well, I thought it was just one of those. So I put it on and nothing happened, and then - I don't know - I got distracted or something and I didn't realise I still had it on. I only noticed a few hours ago when I took a shower."

"You haven't showered for five days?"

"Shut up - that's not the point -"

"Certainly explains the smell…"

"Look -" George's eyes widened in frustration, "I'm trying to help explain why you're here." He took in a deep breath. "It's got something to do with this, I'm sure of it. When I took it off, you disappeared. And I've just picked it up again and now you're back. See - watch." He lifted the necklace from round his neck and tossed it onto the bed. Fred vanished.

For a moment, George was unsure as to whether he wanted his discovery to be true. That was twice now the timings of Fred's disappearances and reappearances had coincided with him putting on the necklace, which meant it really was him controlling when Fred came back. But how on earth did it work?

He stared at the necklace lying on Fred's bed. It was just a little, slightly garish, broken charm… wasn't it? Why would someone have sent it to him, wrapped-up in a return-to-sender package, if it had the power to bring back the dead?

He took in a deep breath. "I need Fred to think," he murmured, and snatched up the necklace from the bed. In another moment, it was around his neck again.

"Mother of Merlin!" Fred tottered over from the other side of the room, clutching at his stomach. "Don't do that again! I might be dead, but apparently that doesn't stop me feeling sick…" He sat down rather heavily on his bed.

George's face was plastered with a mixture of relief and delight. "That proves it," he said. "It's definitely this - that's twice now your reappearances have been linked to me wearing this thing." He tugged at the necklace.

"Right," said Fred slowly, giving the necklace a very suspicious look. "Well, that would make sense with what Dumbledore said, I suppose. About you having something to do with me being here."

All the relief drained from George's face, which twisted itself back into a frown. "What? Dumbledore - you spoke to Dumbledore?"

"Yeah," his twin nodded. "He was on the platform, while I was waiting to go back. He said something about - er - we're all on the right track, or something. Hard to remember now, actually. He wasn't exactly crystal clear about it. But if it's you wearing that necklace that's bringing me back, well, then that must be it. He said the further I go away from you, the weaker the connection, or something, and that you're going to need my advice."

He stared up at George and shrugged, as though that was a perfectly reasonable amount of explanation. George raised his eyebrows.

"So… I'm the one making you come back. I'm the reason you're here. And it's probably because of this necklace," he was saying the words slowly, almost to himself, as though confirming the thoughts in his head.

Fred nodded. "And, Dumbledore mentioned - well, I think he meant this - the case. Bandersnatch's murder."

George's expression changed instantly. He stared meaningfully at his twin. "The murder?" he asked. "Dumbledore talked about it?"

"Well, not in so many words, I suppose," said Fred, standing up again and removing his hand from his stomach. "He said 'your friends are on the right track', but that we don't know how serious it is. That the whole situation is a bit bigger than we realise."

"Wow." George's eyes widened. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"When am I ever not?"

"Dumbledore is involved, isn't he?" George breathed. "Otherwise, how else would he know the reason behind the murders?"

Fred frowned. "You think he knows who did it?" he asked, and the other nodded. "Well, if that's true - why didn't he just tell me?"

His twin shrugged. "He's Dumbledore, isn't he? That's not really his style. Besides, I was thinking something else as well: if you can go back and talk to Dumbledore, maybe you could find Bandersnatch and -" He stopped, seeing Fred shaking his head.

"No can do, I'm afraid," Fred sighed. "It doesn't really work that way."

George looked slightly crestfallen at his words, but nodded all the same, and Fred suddenly felt rather deflated. He crossed to the other side of the room, then leaned against the wall opposite George, folding his arms and chewing on his lower lip again. The clock on the wall beside him ticked softly through the ensuing silence. George glanced at the time.

"Nearly half ten," he remarked absently. Then, "Merlin's beard, I left Lee on his own in the shop. I better get back down there. Um -" he looked over at Fred, who was raising an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, don't worry about me," Fred told him. "You go on. I've got plenty to think about up here…"

The night outside Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was a washed-out violet, pinpricked with stars and lit by the distant glow of the setting sun. The cool night air was now quiet and still, the daytime crowds long gone and the shop itself merely a shadowy room full of boxes on shelves. Upstairs, however, was quite a different story.

"Right - remember," George was explaining, pacing the room and occasionally throwing glances at his twin to make sure he was listening. Fred was lying on his bed, watching his brother with a rather bored expression. "I'll be the only one who can see you, obviously, but I won't be able to talk to you, because Lee and Angelina will think I've finally lost my Gobstones and gone mad. You can talk to me, of course, and you'll probably be able to go places or see things that the rest of us can't, so you can point stuff out to me and I'll tell the other two. Ok?"

"No," Fred said lazily, gazing at his fingernails. "I don't think I've got it yet, can you run it by me again?"

George glared at him.

"What?" Fred pushed himself up and rearranged his limbs so that he was sitting cross-legged. "You've already explained it about eight times, I'll be singing it in my sleep soon enough. Not that I actually sleep anymore, but never mind. It's quarter to ten now - is Lee meeting us outside the shop?"

"Yeah," George replied, no longer glaring at his brother. He looked over at the dark window, then seated himself on his bed, still fidgeting. "Him and Angelina should be here around ten."

Fred nodded, then reached over for his leather-bound scrapbook, flicking through it until he found the page about the case. "Right, here's what we've got so far." He began reading from what looked like a complicated web of sentences, all connected together by spindly lines. "The people who we know are involved in the case are: old Banders (obviously), Dumbledore, and a rather lovely damsel in distress. That's Angelina, by the way."

George blinked in acknowledgement. "Go on," he said. "What else has that brilliant mind come up with?"

"So glad you asked." Fred grinned. "Well - we know from Angelina (and personal experience) that Banders was a pretty paranoid guy, and Angelina thinks he had the squeeze on him just before he was killed."

"The squeeze?"

"Yeah, you know - he was being blackmailed."

George shook his head. "Bloody Carter Sparks. You've been reading too many detective novels…"

"Moving on -" Fred stared back at his book. "Lee told us the story about the goblins, but that doesn't really fit with the manner of the murder. However, we can't really rule them out yet, because smashing stuff is the kind of thing they would do, so there's a possibility that they may have been involved. Also, the Ministry are acting a little less than jake about it all -"

"Speak English, Fred, or I'm going to take those books away from you."

"- the Ministry are not exactly behaving according to principal and so that makes us a bit suspicious about what they've got to do with it. But then, you've got to wonder what in the name of Merlin the Ministry would want with an old Quidditch supplies shopkeeper." He closed the book and put it back beside his bed. "Got all that?"

"Not by half," George said, smiling. "But that's why you're coming with us, isn't it?"

Fred smiled back. "Yeah - too bad I can't take a little notebook with me and a Quick-Quotes Quill or something, to take down the evidence, you know. Or a camera!"

"Right," said George sarcastically. "Because a floating notebook, and a camera which takes pictures of its own accord, wouldn't be weird at all."

"Wouldn't be that weird," said Fred defensively.

George sighed. "Alright - how about I take along a notebook instead? And you tell me what to write in it."

Fred beamed at him. "Great. Merlin's beard, it's ten o'clock. Where did you say we were meeting again?"

"Your memory really is bad," muttered George, before the two of them hurried down the staircase into the dark quietness of the shop, and out into Diagon Alley. Lee was already waiting there, his back to the doors.

"Thought you'd forgotten," he said, grinning, as George (and Fred) stepped out into the dusk.

George returned his grin, then looked back questioningly at Fred. Fred stared down at himself, then made a face as though he was listening hard for something. After a moment, he gave his twin the thumbs up and whispered, "Dumbledore must have been right - I don't feel wobbly at all!"

"Hi," said a voice a few feet from them, and George's gaze snapped round to see Angelina approaching. "Ready? Let's go."

The four of them moved on down the street, glancing from side to side at the shadowy shop-fronts, occasionally spotting someone shuffling down an alleyway or sneaking through a door. Far behind them, they could hear the muffled crowd in the Leaky Cauldron, clearly enjoying their Friday night out. With a pang, George suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be going home tomorrow.

"It's just down here," Angelina told them, her words hushed with restrained excitement. "We can get in through the back entrance."

She led them through the narrow alley between Bandernsatch's Quidditch Supplies and Slither & Vial's Potion Emporium, emerging from the darkness into a small patio garden. A high brick wall surrounded them, its surface covered in vines and splatters of paint; to the left, rising higher than the garden walls, stood the back of the shop. The tiny windows were all dark, glassy eyes staring down at them, as Angelina edged towards the flimsy back door.

"It might look a bit pathetic," she said, pointing to the entrance, "but it was armed with about twenty enchantments before he died. They've all gone now, obviously, so all we need to get in is Alohomora." There was a faint click, and the battered wooden door swung open.

The four of them stepped inside. Like the rest of Diagon Alley, it was dark and quiet inside the shop, but here there was also something else - something which George felt was an unmistakeable sense of wrongness. They were standing in some kind of small stock room, the walls invisible behind rows and rows of shelves, stretching right up to the ceiling. Even though the shop had only been closed for a few days, there were already cobwebs shining against the worm-eaten wood, and dust was thick on every surface.

"Cheery in here, isn't it?" muttered Lee, as he, George and Fred followed Angelina through to the main part of the shop. The girl pushed aside a ragged curtain, which separated the stock room from the space directly behind the till, and stepped out into the shop. It was entirely empty.

George stared around at the bare shelves, the empty floor, the unburdened desk where even the till was missing. "Where is everything?"

"Confiscated," Angelina replied solemnly. "The Ministry took it all - most of it was broken anyway, destroyed in the fight. We have to order in completely new stock, the stuff in that back room is all out of date now."

"So, how are we supposed to investigate what happened if we can't even see the crime scene?" Lee frowned.

"Ah – watch and learn, gentlemen," said Angelina, pulling her wand from her robes. "I picked this up researching methods of magical law enforcement." She pointed her wand at the space before her and said, "Scaena videatur!*"

George let out an audible gasp. The room was suddenly full to the brim with debris: broken furniture and smashed bottles lay strewn about the floor, all coated with layers of torn paper and dust; the walls were splattered with substances of various colours, and broomsticks that had been splintered apart were scattered about amidst the chaos. Right in the centre of it all, only inches from where Angelina was standing, lay Mr. Bandersnatch.

How he could have sparked enthusiasm for Quidditch in anyone who came into his shop, George thought, was a mystery. Shrivelled and hunchbacked, with limbs like knobbly sticks and a head that seemed far too big for its body, the former owner of Bandersnatch's Quidditch Supplies looked more like he belonged in a Gothic horror novel, than in a shop for the best sport in the Wizarding World. Staring down at him now, however, George found it very difficult to feel anything but pity for him.

"Doesn't exactly look like he died of natural causes, does it?" he commented darkly, as he moved to get a closer look at the body. Stepping through the ruins of the shop floor, he noticed that the objects that had appeared as part of Angelina's spell were not really there. The destruction that littered the ground was all faintly see-through, and had no substance whatsoever. George suddenly realised that he was actually standing in a disembodied tabletop, and stepped out of it in alarm. "What is all this, anyway?" he asked Angelina.

"I told you, I found it in a book about crime investigations," the girl told him, bending down to examine her former boss. "It's quite a complicated spell, took me a while to get it right. You have to think of what scene you want to see, and it shows you how it was. It's not really here, obviously, but it gives us a good idea of what the Ministry saw when they came to 'investigate'." She said the last word with distaste, leaning her head to one side and staring intensely at Mr. Bandersnatch's wide-open eyes. "I think you're right, George - this doesn't look like a goblin attack to me. This is a wizard's work."

Lee was wandering up and down the shop walls, peering at the damaged objects on the shelves. "You can't even tell if they took anything from all this mess…" he said. "Do you think they were looking for something, or they really did have a fight?"

"If they were looking for something, why destroy the whole shop doing so?" asked Angelina, straightening up and stepping over the body on the floor to stand next to George.

Lee shrugged. "To cover their tracks, I suppose," he suggested. "Like I said - this place is such a wreck you can't tell whether something's missing or just buried under all this."

"Hey - George." Unseen by Lee or Angelina, Fred had been following the former in his inspection of the shelves. He was now pointing to a wooden box with a glass front, the inside of which was split up into small compartments. Lettering across the top of the box read: Second-Hand Snitches ~ Twenty-Six Galleons Each, and underneath, in a kind of spidery scrawl, someone had written: Don't ask if you don't have the gold.

George stared meaningfully at his twin, conscious of the fact that his facial expressions were in clear view of Lee, who was still standing by the shelves. Fred took the hint.

"There's none left," he explained. "And the box isn't smashed - the only damage is where someone's forced the lid." He scanned the room pointedly. "In fact - can you see a single Snitch in all this mess? You'd think they'd be flying around, wouldn't you?"

George followed his gaze and eyed the heaps of debris; despite the many broken broomsticks, bottles of varnish, punctured Quaffles and Beater's bats lying around, there was not a single glint of gold anywhere to be seen.

He pulled Fred's notebook out of his robes and crossed over to the shelf where the Snitch case stood. "Look at this," he said to Lee and Angelina. "This isn't broken, is it? And yet all the Snitches are gone."

"Oh yeah," said Lee. "I completely missed that. Well spotted."

George smiled, and then saw Fred's raised eyebrows. "Er - yeah, I only just noticed," he added hastily. "And I looked around the shop to see if I could spot them and noticed something weirder - there are no Snitches here at all."

As he spoke, he saw Fred move behind the shop desk and disappear into the stock room. He emerged a few moments later. "Nope," he said, "not a single Snitch in there either."

"Do you reckon there are any in the stock room?" asked Angelina.

"Er, no, I don't think so," said George immediately. "I looked when we were coming in - didn't see any Snitches at all."

Angelina raised her eyebrows, looking impressed. "How very perceptive of you," she said, smiling, but George found he couldn't smile back - his stomach had just performed some kind of somersault. Instead, he gave a very false cough and started scribbling in his notebook.

"Did he keep Snitches anywhere else?" Lee queried, now examining the shelves on the opposite wall. "Come to think of it, are there any Bludgers around either?"

"There's one here," said Fred from next to a rickety staircase. He pointed to a heap of wrinkled leather. "I'd recognise that angry shade of black anywhere…"

"Isn't that one there?" George said, indicating where Fred was standing.

Lee glanced at the ruined Bludger. "Oh yeah," he said. "Someone's on the ball tonight, eh?"

George shrugged and carefully avoided Fred's eyes, but then met Angelina's by accident. She smiled again, and he felt his insides go numb.

"Right," announced Angelina, moving to stand in the middle of the room and surveying the wreckage around her. "So, we've found Bludgers, Quaffles and broomsticks," she ticked off the items on her fingers, "but no Snitches. That's very odd." She tapped the side of her head thoughtfully. "Why would someone want to steal Snitches?"

"Well," said Lee, "they're valuable, aren't they? I mean - twenty-six Galleons just for a second-hand one, that's pretty steep."

George frowned. "Yeah, but broomsticks are worth a hundred times that, and whoever it was hasn't been very careful with them."

"Now I come to think of it," said Angelina slowly, "I'm pretty sure he kept a collection of old stuff upstairs, including Snitches." She glanced at the staircase, looking straight through Fred. "Not second-hand ones," she added, "I mean really old ones. He kept them in a cabinet - locked, and guarded by about a million spells - most of which, I'm sure, were illegal. They were antique ones, I think. Most of them were gifts. Not that he ever let us see them up close, mind." She looked meaningfully from Lee to George, both of whom knew exactly what she was thinking.

Lee sighed. "Who wants a wager?" he said with a grimace, as the three of them moved towards the staircase. "Because I'm willing to bet everything I own that every single Snitch is gone."


*For those of you who might be interested, scaena videatur (sky-na wid-ay-ar-tor) translates from Latin as 'let the scene be seen'. It sounds pretty good in English as well, I think.

"How much is that I owe you?" asked George grimly, as the three of them, plus Fred, stood before the broken cabinet in Mr. Bandersnatch's sitting room. It was completely empty.

"I didn't even realise," said Angelina, looking slightly horrified. "I saw all the smashed Sneakoscopes and spying devices, saw that all the log books were gone, but I didn't notice this cabinet." She prodded uncertainly at the hinge, and it fell straight off the side of the door.

George stared at it. "They were careful about this, weren't they? Like the one downstairs. Didn't destroy it, just unscrewed the hinge. But why kill him?"

"To get rid of the curses," Angelina said. "Like the security ones on the door, they only last as long as the person who cast them is still alive. He must have put up a pretty good fight, though."

She stared around at the cramped, dusty sitting room, where the same 'scene revealing' spell now showed them a collection of broken dark detectors littering the worn carpet. The walls were panelled with a kind of dark wood, scratched and faded, and the furniture was equally dark and old-fashioned. An ugly fireplace opened up one wall, the grate blackened and burned and thickly coated with ash. Fred was leaning against the wall beside it, watching the other three with narrowed eyes.

George noticed his expression and frowned, but then something in the fireplace caught his eye. Sticking out from under a particularly large heap of grey ash was something small, square and yellow.

"What's that?" he said, moving towards it. Tentatively, he brushed some of the ash aside and tugged out the thing from underneath. It was a thin, torn piece of parchment, only the corner of which was still intact. A line of brown scorch marks bordered the edge, where the rest of the paper had been burnt away. Visible in slanting black handwriting were the words: arrived at four-thirty this morning, again no owl, just asking for the b.

The four of them gaped at the parchment in George's hands.

"Asking for the what?" cried Lee.

"Don't know… there's a 'b' there, but that could stand for anything." Angelina shrugged. "These must be what's left of his journals - the attacker didn't steal them, they burnt them."

George flipped open Fred's notebook again and hastily wrote down the words from the parchment. "Anyone know a spell to get the rest of them back? I'm guessing reparo won't work…"

Lee shook his head. "Not sure there is one," he said. "It's to do with laws of magic, or something - if an object's destroyed by one of the four elements you can't -" He stopped suddenly, his eyes wide, and all four of them stared towards the sitting room door. There were noises coming from downstairs.

A crash. Then footsteps. George, Lee and Angelina all froze exactly where they stood. Fred, however, dashed towards the staircase.

George only stopped himself from crying out at the last minute. While the other two were still staring at the door, he mouthed to Fred, "What are you doing?"

"Going to see who it is," Fred told him, one hand on the doorknob. "It's not like they can see me. Distract those two, would you? I need to open the door."

His twin nodded. Then, improvising, he turned towards one of the over-stuffed armchairs on the opposite side of the room and shouted, "What's that?!"

As Lee and Angelina both whirled around in shock, George heard the sitting room door click open and Fred's footsteps hurry downstairs. Hopefully, he thought, the sound of somebody (albeit an invisible somebody) coming down the stairs might frighten their unwelcome visitor away. Angelina and Lee had both failed to notice Fred's exit, however, as they were still staring at the armchair.

"What?" whispered Angelina, sounding scared. "What did you see?"

"Er -" George tried to look genuinely confused. "I - I don't know. Um, I thought I saw something, but it must have just been a spider or…" he trailed off, as the other two looked at him mutinously.

Another crash from downstairs. George felt a sudden pang of anxiety for Fred.

"Who do you reckon it is?" murmured Lee, as he and George looked to Angelina for an answer.

The girl's eyes widened. "I don't know," she said, sounding scared. "Could be one of the other guys, but… why would they be here in the middle of the night?"

"Same reason as us?" suggested George, and Lee snorted.

"Unlikely," he said, then continued in a rather anxious voice, "Anyway, I don't think it matters who it is - do you really want them to know we're here? However legal it might be, Angelina, it doesn't exactly look good."

A third crash, accompanied by the sound of pounding footsteps.

"Don't you think we ought to get out of here?" hissed Angelina, her dark eyes fixed on the door.

"Good plan," said Lee, "Looks like we'll have to Apparate. See you back at the shop." And he spun on one foot and vanished.

Angelina made to follow him, but then she saw that George was still crouched by the fireplace. "What are you doing?" she whispered. "Let's go!"

George was digging through the ashes, his hands covered in coarse grey dust. "Trying to see if there's any more of the journals left," he said quickly, thinking that this also served as a good excuse to wait for Fred. "Help me, would you?"

"Are you mad?" Angelina said exasperatedly, but she knelt down by the grate anyway, and began frantically rummaging in the fireplace.

The crashes downstairs were growing louder. Then, suddenly, the sitting room door banged open. Angelina threw a dust-covered hand to her mouth to stifle a shriek, staring wildly at the doorway. But there was no one there. No one she could see, anyway.

Fred looked very pale as he shoved the door shut and rushed over to his twin. "I think you'd better leave," he said, his gaze flicking from George to Angelina, then back to the door.

"Just a minute," said George through gritted teeth, leaning forward to reach right to the back of the fireplace. There were now cinders all over the carpet, the black dust flying out in clouds as George swiped at the back of the grate. "There's something stuck here!" he cried.

There was a creak on the staircase - then the stomp of a heavy boot.

"George!" shouted Angelina, tugging at his robes, but George remained where he was.

"It's a book," he said, the sound muffled through the clouds of ash. "I can feel the cover - it's just stuck -"

Another heavy stamp came from the staircase, this time from somewhere near the top.

"Hurry up!" It was Fred's voice this time. "Use your wand, you idiot!"

At his words, George jerked backwards. Still kneeling on the carpet, he pulled his wand from his pocket and aimed it at the back of he grate. "Accio book!" he cried.

A small, brown bundle of pages flew out of the fireplace and straight into George's hand, just as the sitting room door burst open.

Not even stopping to think, George leapt to his feet, grabbed Angelina and turned to Disapparate. As he spun round to face the door, he saw a tall, dark figure silhouetted in the doorway. He caught only a glimpse of the man's furious face, before he and Angelina disappeared.

~***~

His feet hit the ground with a thud, and he didn't need to open his eyes to know they had landed in darkness. The shop was calm and quiet, but George's heart was banging out a drum solo in his chest, as he took in a deep breath and realised he was still clinging onto something.

He blinked open his eyes and saw that he had both arms wrapped tightly around Angelina, who was still shaking violently. Very slowly, he pulled himself away.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly. The girl nodded.

"Yeah," she said, her voice sounding slightly hoarse. "I think so… did you get the book?"

George raised his right hand, where, in his ash-covered grip, he held the tiny, brown book. He grinned at her rather sheepishly.

"Where the hell have you two been?" demanded Lee, as he strode over from the other end of the shop. He waved his wand towards the ceiling and an array of bright yellow orbs began to glow with light above them. "I thought you were right behind me!"

"We were," said Angelina, her voice sounding a little more natural now. "But then George found this -" She pointed to the book.

Lee frowned. "What is it?" he asked, and George suddenly realised that he wasn't really sure. Tentatively, he lifted the leather cover. A tumult of ash and dust dropped out from the first page, causing George to take several steps backwards. He coughed loudly, waving away the clouds of dust, then peered down at what was inside.

The pages were very badly singed, the parchment crinkled and bleached, so that most of the writing was no longer visible. Very carefully, he turned the pages, causing more ash to fall to the floor, and noted that each leaf of paper was headed with a date, and that various times and days had been scribbled in the margins. "It's a diary," he breathed. "Or some sort of log book. I can't read a lot of it, though…"

"How did it survive the fire?" said Angelina, moving closer to him to look at the battered book. George shrugged, thinking over the heaps of ash now spread all over Mr. Bandersnatch's carpet. Then, suddenly, a horrible weight slammed down into his stomach.

He jerked himself out of his own thoughts, almost dropping the book in his haste to stare around the room. Where was Fred? He had just Disapparated, expecting Fred to follow - he hadn't stopped to think about the fact that Fred couldn't use magic anymore, that Fred couldn't Disapparate to escape.

He raced towards the shop door, peering out at the dark street.

"George?" he heard Angelina's voice, as though from miles away. "What in the name of Merlin -?"

"I need to go back!" he cried, panic-stricken. "I think - I think I left something -"

He yanked open the door and rushed outside, not caring that his friends were staring after him as though he had gone completely mad. He heard them shouting after him, but he didn't stop. He was half-way down the dark street, running as though for his life when, only a few feet from where he stood, someone said, "I'm here. It's alright - don't wait for me, or anything…"

George's feet almost slipped from under him in his haste to stop. He straightened up, and saw Fred tottering towards him up the street, hunched over slightly and looking out of breath. George felt a tidal wave of relief wash over him, as he ran a shaking hand through his hair and cried, "How?"

Fred shuffled a little closer to him, still looking as pale as he had done in Bandersnatch's living room. "Don't really know," he said quietly, his face sporting a rather bemused expression. "When you took off without me - thanks for that, by the way - I just sort of… disappeared as well. It all went dark, and I felt really, really wobbly for a second, and then… I was just down there -" He pointed a little further down the street, somewhere near Florean Fortescue's old ice-cream parlour.

"It must be the connection," said George, still sounding shaky, "the one Dumbledore was talking about. To do with this -" He gestured to the charm around his neck, most of it hidden under his robes.

"George! GEORGE!" Frantic footsteps were racing down the street behind him, and George spun round to see Angelina hurtling in his direction, followed, at a distance, by Lee. The girl slid to a halt, her face stricken.

"Thank God you're alright," she said, panting. "When you didn't come back, I thought - but it's ok." She looked away from him, suddenly seeming embarrassed about how panicked she had been. "Whatever it was, George, I can go back tomorrow and get it, but you can't possibly be thinking of -"

"It's alright," George said, also feeling embarrassed, though he was not sure why. He avoided looking anywhere near Fred. "It's fine, it doesn't matter."

Lee's footsteps slowed to a stop just behind Angelina. "Ok?" he asked George, eyebrows raised. "Not gone mad just yet?" George grinned and shook his head, and Lee rolled his eyes. "Right then - I'm off to bed. I think that's enough excitement for one night…"

~***~

George awoke the next morning to a thumping headache. The events of last night all seemed like a bad dream, buzzing and blurry in his mind. After Angelina and Lee had departed, he had simply sunk down onto his bed and fallen instantly asleep, all the strength gone right out of him. He had not had time to ask Fred what he had seen downstairs in the shop, or to properly examine the book that he had risked his and Angelina's lives to retrieve, or to think any more about the connection between he and Fred - the one that had dragged Fred away from the scene as George had Disapparated…

Someone was shaking his bedclothes, and a girl's voice was saying, "George, you promised!"

He gave an unintelligible grunt and rolled over. Standing over him, her hands on her hips, was Ginny. "It's half twelve already," she snapped. "You said you'd come early because Mum has to go to Madam Malkin's this afternoon."

"Ginny… what on earth…?" he grumbled, turning away from her and pulling the duvet over his head. She snatched it away from him. He glared at her, then sat up, peering blearily around the room. "How did you get up here, anyway?"

"Lee let me in," Ginny told him, throwing the duvet back in his face and looking around the floor. As soon as she spotted any discarded items of clothing, she began picking them up and tossing them onto George's bed. "He just came round to put a 'Closed for the Weekend' sign on the door. He said without you here it'd be a nightmare, being the summer holidays and everything. I knew you weren't already at home, so I -" she stopped, her meticulous gaze falling upon the mounds of letters on Fred's bed – the letters from Angelina to Fred. Ginny picked one of them up, the annoyance in her face fading as she scanned its contents. "George, what are all these…? Oh, George."

"It's - not what you think -" George said hurriedly, leaping out of his bed and pulling on a random collection of clothes. "Really - I was just clearing out some stuff and -"

Ginny was wearing a very sympathetic and slightly teary-eyed expression. She placed the letter in her hand back with the others and looked around the room again, spotting the open boxes of Fred's belongings and the untidiness of his bed. When her gaze returned to George, she looked as though she didn't really know what to say.

"It's nothing…" George began uncertainly. "Really… I'm not…" He sighed, knowing, from the look on Ginny's face, that he was fighting a losing battle. He decided the best option was to play along. "Just don't tell Mum, ok?"

Ginny nodded. "'Course not," she said, managing a watery smile. Then, "Look, George -"

"I know."

"- we all miss him too -"

"I know."

"- staying away from home, you're only shutting yourself out -"

"I know, Ginny." His words sounded too forceful, and Ginny looked rather taken aback. He suddenly felt angry with himself for upsetting her, and compensated for it by saying, "Right. Give me a few minutes in the bathroom, and then I'll be ready to go, ok?"

She nodded again. "Do you want me to pack some stuff for you?"

"Yeah," George said, smiling. "Thanks, Ginny."

~***~

As George had predicted, Fred was in the bathroom.

"I saw her come up the stairs, looking furious," Fred told his twin in a mildly scared voice, "so I ran for it. Instinct, I suppose."

George gave him an understanding nod and began splashing water over his face. When he spoke, it was in an undertone, as he was well aware that doors were not soundproof. After the incident with Ginny finding the letters, he did not want his sister to think he was any more mad by letting her hear him talking to himself.

"Going home today," he said quietly. "I suppose you'll have to come with me. Might be nice, you know, seeing the place again?"

"Yeah," said Fred, though he did not sound as though he meant it. He looked away from his twin and began examining the bathtub. "Do you ever clean this anymore…?"

George threw a towel at him, and Fred caught it just before it hit his face. "Weird, isn't it?" Fred commented vaguely, looking at the towel. "How stuff doesn't go through me, like it does with ghosts… And how I can't go through walls or doors or anything."

"Very weird," said George thickly, removing a toothbrush from his mouth and spitting into the sink. He turned to face Fred, his chin covered in white foam. "Right," he began in a business-like tone, "how is this going to work? I mean, if Ginny and I Apparate, how are you going to come with us?"

Fred shrugged. "Same as last time?" he suggested. "Or, maybe I could try holding on to you - like side-along Apparition?"

"Yeah, we could try that -" George stopped as he heard someone knocking on the door. "I'll be there in a minute, Ginny." He splashed water over his face to wash off the foam, then turned back to Fred. "Oh yeah - could you tidy up some of your stuff, please?"

"Sorry, Mother."

"I mean it," George grimaced. "Ginny found the letters all over your bed, and now she thinks I'm trying to - I don't know - pretend you still live here or something." He glared at Fred, who was hiding a smirk. "You know what I mean: now she thinks I'm completely off my rocker, and it's only a matter of time before Mum finds out." He sighed, then threw a last glance at the mirror and walked back into the bedroom.

Ginny was standing in the middle of the room, a small rucksack in her right hand. Both beds were made, and most of the clothes and other objects littering the floor had been brushed into a corner. "I put some clothes in here," she tapped the rucksack, "and tidied the room up a bit. Is there anything else you want?"

George heard Fred come out of the bathroom, and saw his twin point at his bedside table. The little scorch-marked book was lying there next to Fred's scrapbook. "Er, yeah," he said, moving over to the table. "I'll just grab some - er - work stuff." He picked up the books and stuffed them into his bag. "Ok, let's go."

His sister gave him a quick smile, then spun on her heel and vanished. As soon as she had gone, George turned to Fred.

"Quick." He stuck out his free arm. "Hold on. Before she realises I'm not with her and comes back."

"Right." Fred hurried across the room and clasped George's outstretched arm tightly. "What happens if it doesn't work?" he asked.

His twin shook his head. "I don't know - you'll just come along anyway, like last time."

"Great," said Fred sarcastically. "Glad to see my well-being is top of the list of priorities."

"Look," began George exasperatedly, "if we don't hurry up, Ginny'll be back and she'll think I'm deliberately not coming."

"Alright, alright. Pirouette away..."

~***~

George's eyes were still closed when he heard someone very close to him cry out, "George! Oh, welcome home, dear!"

"Mum -" he began, but every other word in his sentence was muffled as his mother pulled him into a tight hug. He blinked open his eyes to find his vision obscured by a large quantity of ginger hair, beyond which he could vaguely see the wall of the Burrow's kitchen.

"Oh, George, it's so good to see you, dear." His mother finally released him and stood back, peering from his dazed expression to his feet which, George suddenly realised, were only encased in socks.

Mrs. Weasley frowned. "George, where on earth are your shoes?"

"Um…" George looked around the floor, noting that his rucksack had dropped from his grip and was now lying next to his feet. He looked up and saw that Ginny, standing just next to him, was pointing at it. "In there," he said hurriedly, gesturing to the bag. "I didn't have time to put them on, sort of slept in…"

"Oh, never mind," said Mrs. Weasley, smiling. "At least you're not getting mud on my nice clean floor." She gestured around the kitchen, and George saw that it was, indeed, cleaner than he had ever seen it. Ginny flashed him a quick smile before disappearing through the door to the lounge, and Mrs. Weasley pointed after her, saying, "Go on through and say hello. Your father's not here, he's had to take a Saturday shift due to a bout of Dragon Pox in the office, but Harry and Hermione are in there with Ron, and Charlie's just outside finishing off the de-gnoming."

She flicked her wand at the kettle and it began to whistle. "Help yourself to tea," she told him. "I've got to be getting along to Madam Malkin's, but I'll be back around two o'clock for lunch." She beamed at her son, waved a hand in the direction of the living room, and then bustled out of another door.

George felt a stone sink to the bottom of his stomach as he watched her leave; her evident happiness at his return made him feel extremely guilty for delaying coming home for so long. The last time he had been home was Christmas, and even then it had only been for a few days. He had barely spoken to anyone, and had spent most of the time on his own. Staying at the shop meant keeping busy, and keeping busy had been his way of coping.

"Hasn't changed a bit," said a voice near him. He whirled round to see Fred standing by the scrubbed kitchen table, which was now sporting a freshly-pressed white tablecloth. Although Fred was smiling, the shadow was back in his eyes as he stared around the place that had, formerly, been his home. "Is Percy back living here now?"

"No," said George. "At least, I don't think so. He's gone back to his flat in some part of London somewhere - I've never been, actually." This sent another surge of guilt running through him, though it was remarkably less than the feeling instigated by his mother. "I think he's coming to stay in a couple of weeks, though - before the wedding, you know."

Fred nodded, then threw a fleeting glance at the door to the hall. "You going to go in and see that lot, then?" It was obvious that he had tried to sound casual, but George thought there was something rather expectant in Fred's tone.

"Er, yeah," he said. "Hang on a second, while I just put this stuff upstairs - actually, I don't know where I'm sleeping, yet. I think Harry and Charlie might be in our room." He paused. 'Our room' - their room. It sounded so much more normal that way.

He hoisted his rucksack onto the kitchen table, wary of creasing the impeccable tablecloth, and dug inside it until he found a pair of shoes. "It must have worked, then," he said vaguely, pulling on a shoe. "If you're here?"

"Yeah, must've done," said Fred. "I don't feel quite as ill as last time, anyway." He glanced at the door again.

"Ok," said George, taking in a deep breath, "let's go."

Both he and Fred strode across to the door, pushed it open and walked into the sitting room.

~***~

That afternoon proved to be the most fun George had had for ages. Despite the odd anxious glance from either Harry, Hermione, or his own siblings, the knowledge that Fred was sitting only a few feet from him meant that their looks had little significance. Even though Fred could say nothing that would be heard by anyone else, the sole fact that he was there, with them, gave George the feeling that everything was back to normal, the way it should be.

Together, he, Harry, Hermione, Ron and Ginny spent the afternoon laughing and joking about Percy, speculating on what Stephanie Millground might be like (apparently none of them had met her yet), and eventually having to help Charlie with the de-gnoming, as most of the little creatures had decided to gang-up on him.

By the time dinner came around, George was feeling happy and relaxed and like his old self again, and the memory of the night before had been pushed right to the back of his mind. When he eventually clambered into bed (his own, as Harry was sharing with Ron), it was with a feeling of utter contentment.

"Hey," whispered a voice near to him, and George rolled over to see Fred crouched down next to him.

"Watch it," George hissed, nodding towards the bed next to him. "Charlie might be -"

"He's asleep," Fred told him. "I checked." He sat down on the floor between the two beds, so that his head was almost level with George's. "So - I was thinking I could have a look around, you know, at some of the books downstairs? Maybe sneak into Hermione's room and have a flick through some of hers - look up this strange phenomenon that is me."

George frowned. "Do you think that's a good idea? What if you get caught?"

"Get caught?" Fred laughed under his breath. "George - no one can see me! Besides, even if someone did happen to see a floating book, they'd probably just think it was the book itself getting a bit of an attitude problem, or something. Or a ghost mucking around - which it sort of is, I suppose." He grinned. George did not look quite so pleased.

"I don't know," he said. "If Mum thinks we've got a ghost in the house, this close to the wedding, she'll do her nut. She'd probably banish all spirits from the place, or something - and that would mean you, too."

"Nonsense," said Fred, standing up. "I'll be really quiet. Promise." And he grinned again, before tip-toeing out of the room.

George watched him tug the bedroom door shut with half-open eyes, then, the warmth of the afternoon washing back over him, he fell straight to sleep.

"Hey! George!" What felt like a millisecond later, someone was stamping around the bedroom, pulling on various bits of clothing and then heading for the door. It was Charlie. "Mum says breakfast's on the table - get up!"

Before George even had time to register these words, Charlie had already closed the door behind him and headed off downstairs. The room was still after he had left. George felt too tired and too comfortable to get up, so he simply lay there in the glow of the morning sunlight, feeling warm and sleepy and perfectly content. For one small moment, he could remember nothing - nothing from the past few days, or weeks, or months. All he knew was that he didn't want to get out of bed.

Then someone sat down on his feet.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry -" Fred jerked back up again, staring down dubiously at the spot where he had just been sitting. "Thought that bit looked safe." He smiled down at George. "And how are you this fine morning?"

George grimaced. "I take it you found something? Something good?" He sat shakily upright, blinking in the light shining behind Fred's head. It made him look like he had a halo.

"I think so. I'm not sure," Fred told him. "I checked the books downstairs - not much. Then I managed to get into Ginny's room where Hermione's sleeping - don't worry, I didn't wake anyone up! - and I found something a bit weird." He held up a battered old book, falling apart at the seams, its faded front cover depicting a pleasant countryside setting.

George stared at it. "The Tales of Beedle the Bard," he read, frowning. Then he looked back at Fred. "Don't we have that?"

"Yeah, this is ours," Fred said, flipping open the book. "Hermione had the runic version, so I went and got our old children's one from downstairs."

"Er, sorry," George was blinking blearily at his twin, his frown deepening. "Am I just not getting something: what on earth have The Tales of Beedle the Bard got to do with you? And why did Hermione have a copy of them, anyway?"

"I don't know," the other replied. "I thought she must just be using it for rune translation practise or something. But that doesn't matter. George -" he held open the book and pointed to a page entitled The Tale of the Three Brothers, "- don't you remember? This story. We must've heard it a million times when we were growing up and I never even thought - I couldn't remember it properly at first, but seeing the book, it nagged me. I had to read it through again to remind myself -" He leaned forward, thrusting the book into George's hands. "The Three Brothers, remember? One asked for the power of invisibility, one asked for that amazing wand, and the third one -"

"- asked for the power to bring back the dead."

George stared at the book, his mouth going slack. When he looked up at Fred it was with an expression of confused disbelief. "It can't be… it just can't, that's mad. Besides, in the story he has a stone - a Resurrection Stone - but I don't have… It can't be the same thing."

Fred rolled his eyes. "I'm not saying it's the same thing," he said, taking the book back from George. "But - it's the same kind of idea, right? This brother has a rock that lets him see the dead. And they look sort of realistic, like me - but they're not really there, also like me." He closed the book and looked meaningfully at his brother. "I'm not a ghost, and neither were the dead people in this story. It's the only time I've ever heard of anything like this - that I can remember. There has to be a link. There must be something else that does the same thing as this stone and, whatever it is, it's in that necklace."

He pointed to the chain around George's neck, and George's hand flew to it instantly. His fingers slipped over the oddly-shaped black beads and bits of glass, reforming the picture in his mind of what it looked like. A strange little charm sent to him with a half-eaten packet of Puking Pastilles… it was hardly the stuff of fairy tales.

"It's just a story, Fred," he said, shrugging. "Yeah, it's a bit similar, but… there never was a Resurrection Stone, was there?"

"No," said Fred, now standing up and beginning to pace heavily about the room. "But someone might have got an idea from this story, might've developed one of their own. I mean, it might sound impossible now, I wouldn't know where to begin, but these stories have been around - what - six, seven centuries? If someone had enough time and patience they could probably do it."

He looked down at the book, and just as he stopped walking backwards and forwards across the room, someone from two floors below shouted, "George! Breakfast! And stop stomping around like that, we can hear you down here!"

~***~

It was Sunday evening, the summer sun was a scarlet glow on the horizon and there was a pleasant coolness in the air, as George stood in the yard outside the Burrow, saying goodbye to his family.

He felt a knot form in his stomach as Mrs. Weasley hugged him, then whispered in his ear that he was to come back soon. Being at home again had felt so secure and right that he found himself very unwilling to leave, and delayed his departure for as long as possible. He said a lengthy goodbye to Harry and Hermione, urging them to come and visit him in Diagon Alley; he shook hands very stiffly with Ron and then pulled him into a tight hug; and finally he ruffled Ginny's hair and repeated his instruction that she was never to be left alone with Harry.

After saying his farewells to Charlie and his father, he turned his attention to Percy, who had dropped by that evening for dinner.

George grinned at him. "Congratulations, Perce," he said, shaking his brother's hand. "I never thought you had it in you."

Percy smiled weakly, his horn-rimmed spectacles slipping slightly down his nose. Then, after muttering a small "Thanks", he suddenly seemed unable to look at George.

"What's the matter?" George peered at him, and when Percy looked back, he seemed rather troubled.

"Oh, nothing, nothing really." The ghost of a smile flickered on Percy's face again. "I don't know… I mean, obviously you look like him, I suppose I just wasn't prepared…"

Realisation slipped sickeningly into George's stomach. Percy was talking about Fred. Looking at him, George, reminded Percy of Fred, and Percy was looking very teary-eyed about it.

For a moment, George didn't quite know what to do. Then, breathing out a long sigh, he said softly, "Oh, Perce," and pulled his brother into a one-armed hug.

Percy turned his face into George's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice muffled by his brother's robes. "I don't know what it is… seeing you again has just - just brought it all back -"

George heaved another sigh, his spirits dampening with every one of his brother's words. Percy had been there when Fred had died - when George had been on the other side of the castle, when he had felt that stab of unexplainable pain in his chest and known that something was wrong. Percy had seen it happen, had tried to stop it, had joked and laughed with Fred right until the end. And in that moment, standing in the yard on Sunday evening, George felt closer to his bespectacled, stiff-upper-lipped, temporarily-estranged brother than he had ever felt in his life.

"I know," he said quietly. "It's alright."

Mrs. Weasley bustled over to them. "Come here, Percy, dear," she said, extracting Percy from under George's arm.

"I'm alright, mother," Percy said in a watery voice. He sniffed. "I'm alright. I'm sorry, George."

George smiled at him. "It's nothing," he said, and meant it. He looked nervously around for Fred, and saw his twin standing on the other side of the yard, watching Percy with a rather forlorn expression, his mouth twitching slightly. It looked as though Fred wanted to say something, but couldn't quite get the words out.

"I - time to go, I think," George said quickly, patting Percy on the arm before moving across to Fred.

"Oh, you will come back soon, won't you, dear?" Mrs. Weasley called from where she still had an arm around Percy. "The wedding's only two weeks away - you will be there, won't you?"

"Of course," George told her, picking up his rucksack. Fred clung on to his twin's arm, with a rather weaker grasp than before, and nodded at him. "Right, well - see you all." George gave a fleeting smile to his family and friends, tried not to think about how much he would miss them all, and Disapparated from the yard.

His last few words with Percy were still in his mind as he spun homeward, and this slight lapse in concentration meant that he Apparated into the darkness of the shop downstairs rather than into his flat. He heard a scuffle nearby that told him Fred had got home safely as well, then waved his wand towards the ceiling and illuminated the room. His mouth dropped open.

They had landed in utter chaos.


NB: There is a moment in this where Fred says something that doesn't correspond with book 7. Don't worry - this is deliberate, and it is corrected in the next chapter when Fred realises his mistake.

"What… what in the name of…?" George stared around the shop floor, all of the past moments with his family instantly banished from his mind. "What the hell happened here?"

It looked as though every item in the shop had been destroyed. Pulled off the shelves and strewn about the floor were piles and piles of broken boxes, splintered products, rivers of sticky potions and smashed glass. There was not an inch of space visible beneath the mountainous mess, and as George looked down in horror, he saw that he and Fred were both standing amid a quagmire of melted sweets.

"Ugh!" He lifted a foot experimentally, and a thick streamer of purple gunge came with it. "What is all this?"

Fred was looking angrily around, turning to examine the door behind them. "Lock's melted," he said. "They didn't even bother to clean up after themselves."

"But why destroy stuff…?" George said, still gaping at the scene before him. "If you've managed to get in - to get past the security spells - why smash everything? Why not steal it and sell it on?"

He shuffled away from where he had landed, trudging through the swamp of damaged goods. He reached the till and saw that the draw was open, but the smooth silver tray was still full of gold pieces. "They didn't even take any money," he muttered.

His twin moved over to join him, still looking thunderous. "Will you be able to repair it?" he asked through gritted teeth.

George nodded. "Most of it, I don't know. The potions I don't think we can get back, but most of the other stuff…" He, too, gritted his teeth as he surveyed the wreckage. "Hang on a minute," he said suddenly. "The flat -!"

He dashed up the rickety staircase and burst through the door into his bedroom. The chaos was equal to downstairs. With a sickening jolt of horror, George noted the bedcovers ripped to shreds, mattresses turned upside-down, the torn paper and broken items littering the wooden floor. It was all he could do to stop tears spilling from his eyes. It was one thing to trash the shop… it was quite another to burgle his home.

"What? What is it?" Fred came running in behind him, looking pale. "Oh no…"

George felt so angry he could barely speak. He glared at the room, at the tattered clothing and the ruptured boxes, the remains of Fred's letters spread like confetti over the mess. "Nothing stolen, and not just the shop… It was him, wasn't it?" He whirled round to face Fred, looking livid. "The man who killed Bandersnatch, the one who stole the Snitches and caught us breaking into the shop - he recognised me and thought he'd teach me a lesson for messing with his business! This is a warning, isn't it? He knew I could repair all of this stuff in here; if he was really searching for something he could've cleaned it all up himself and hope I'd never notice - but no. He left it like this to show me what he's capable of. He destroyed all of my stuff for -" He stopped, and his face, so scarlet with anger, whitened. "The book…" He stared around wildly, his eyes frisking every surface. "The little book - the one we stole. That's what he went back to Bandersnatch's for! He remembered he'd left it, or wanted to check, or something - he went back to get it and we took it and that's what he was looking for here!"

Fred gulped, and his eyes flicked to the staircase. "Good job you took it with you then, isn't it?"

George let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. "Yeah," he breathed. "But -" he opened looked around again, and tugged his wand from his robes. "That just means he'll be back. Like I said - this is a warning. This is him telling me that he might not have found what he was looking for, but that's not going to stop him." He pointed his wand at the room and cried, "Restituo!*."

Instantly, objects began flying around the room, some of the broken things putting themselves back together, others merely resting on a shelf still in little pieces. The bedcovers once more lay across the twin beds, the letters were made whole again and returned to their shoebox, and George's clothes were all folded smartly and stacked at the end of his bed. The room looked neater and tidier than George had ever seen it.

"We can use Angelina's spell later to see what it used to be like," George said, stepping cautiously about the room and examining his handiwork. "But I don't think I could face it looking that way anymore." He paused at a shelf, noting a selection of bottles which had been returned to their original state, but were now devoid of any contents. "There are some things that spell can't do," he muttered. "It'll be the same downstairs. We won't be able to get the potions or sweets back… Merlin, it'll take ages to make more of them."

Anger stole over him again as he found a heap of gold metalwork lying crumpled on the top shelf. It was the smashed remains of the watch he had been given on his seventeenth birthday, and was obviously beyond repair. He clenched his fists as he stood staring at it, his eyes level with the shining tangle of cogs and springs. He turned round. "I'm going to find him," he announced, his jaw set. "I'm going to hunt him down, I'm going to help Angelina, and I'm going to find the man who did this - the man who won't stop at killing someone to get what he wants."

"Agreed," said Fred quietly, and he looked every bit as determined as his twin.

George strode over to the door to the staircase, then said, "Write a letter to Lee, will you? Just sign it from me. We haven't got an owl, so you'll have to use the Floo network. It's best he's prepared, in case the bastard who did this knows he was involved as well." He rattled down the stairs, calling as he went, "I'm going to see what I can do to repair the damage."

~***~

An hour and a half later, Lee stood in the doorway to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, watching George direct objects back to their places with his wand. The spell that had so quickly restored order to his bedroom had not worked as fast downstairs, and George was spending a lengthy amount of time sorting through the debris, repairing what could be repaired and vanishing what could not. He was keeping a list of everything that needed replacing, which was growing longer by the minute.

"Do you want a hand?" asked Lee, surveying the scene in shock. "I came as quick as I could, as soon as I got the letter. Thought it was Fred's handwriting at first," he laughed, then stopped himself.

"Yeah, well," said George, standing up and looking round at his friend. "I was a bit shaken up when I wrote it." He shook his head. "I didn't realise how much damage was irreversible. Half our stock can't be repaired."

"Have you told anyone?" Lee stepped into the shop, where George had cleared a broad pathway down the centre. Most of the mended stock was back on the shelves, and many of the splintered tables and stands had been put back together. There was still a lot missing, however, and it was these sizeable gaps that Lee indicated when he said, "The Ministry, or something? Don't they have some sort of compensation for these - situations?"

George shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "But I don't think I want to get the Ministry involved. They'd ask if I had any idea who did it, and I'm pretty sure I do, but fat lot of good it'll do telling them."

"Why?" Lee looked slightly nervous as he moved further into the room. "You don't think -?"

"Yep." George flicked his wand at a heap of tattered Headless Hats, and they sewed themselves back together before sitting neatly on a stand. "No question. He didn't take anything - I've checked a hundred times to make sure - and he left all this mess as a warning, I'm certain of it. He's telling us to back off."

Lee folded his arms. "And are you? Going to back off, I mean?"

George raised his eyebrows. "Not bloody likely." He crossed to the shop desk and settled himself into the newly-repaired chair behind it. "If he wants a fight, we'll give him one. I'm not going to let him destroy my shop and burgle my house and kill a man and upset Angelina -" He stopped himself abruptly, and coughed to hide this unwarranted pause. "I mean - if he thinks he can get away with it, he's got another thing coming."

"'Ear 'ear," said Lee, grinning. "Although, I ought to tell you something that might make you a bit more wary…" He reached inside his robes pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, which George recognised as coming from the Daily Prophet. "Yours wasn't the only break-in this weekend. Someone smashed-up Rustin and Splinter's on Friday night, apparently it happened just before the whole business at Bandersnatch's." He handed George the article, and George regarded it with narrowed eyes.

"Rustin and Splinter's…" he said slowly. "The Wizarding antiques shop?"

"Very same," said Lee. "Says they didn't take anything, just made a hell of a mess. Thank Merlin's backside neither of the old geezers were in on Friday night - Jasper Rustin Jr. had gone home for the weekend and Davey Splinter was out for a drink. You reckon it was the same guy?"

"Oh yeah." George nodded, his gaze sweeping over the article. "But - hang on. Why an antiques shop? And why make a point out of robbing them? Do you think they linked him to Bandersnatch as well?"

He asked these same questions to Fred an hour later, after Lee had agreed he'd stay with his parents for a few days and had left George to put the finishing touches on restoring the shop. Fred gave him exactly the same answer as Lee had.

"No idea," he said lamely, looking rather helpless. "It seems completely random, doesn't it? Quidditch store, joke shop, antiques place - if we didn't know that two of these targets had been keeping an eye on Mr. Mysterious we'd have nothing to go on at all. Give me the article."

George passed him the clipping from the Prophet and Fred stuck it in his scrapbook. He tapped the page idly, evidently thinking. "You know," he said eventually, "I can't help feeling that all of this - the burglaries, the Snitches, me coming back - has got something to do with… Dumbledore. I just get the feeling that it does. It was him coming to meet me again, telling me we're on the right track."

"Well," sighed George. "Knowing Dumbledore - or rather, not knowing him well enough - I'd say you're probably right. But how are we going to find out?" He sat down on his bed, facing Fred, and rested his chin on his hand. He stared around at the room, noting that it was now slightly more empty than before as many of his damaged things had been vanished. The broken watch, however, still retained pride of place on his top shelf, even though he knew it would never tick again.

After a moment, his eyes alighted on the books by Fred's bed. There, amid a pile of battered paperbacks, lay the little scorched book they had rescued from Bandersnatch's fire - the thing that had caused all this trouble in the first place. George had now tried on several occasions to make sense of what was written inside, but so much of it was faded or destroyed that it would take hours just to read one page. He had decided that that was a job for Fred. As his gaze moved away, however, he caught sight of another book nestled underneath the pile - the faded children's version of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. His eyes grew wider.

"Wait a minute -" he said, grabbing the book from Fred's bedside table. "Just wait a minute. Fred - I can't believe I forgot - don't you remember? We were there when Hermione was given that rune book! It wasn't for translation practise or anything, it was left for her in the will of -"

"- Albus Dumbledore," finished Fred, with a look of awe on his face. "No way. No way! Ha! Oh, this is too good. So - the reason why I'm here is from a book that Dumbledore gave Hermione in his will. In that mysterious, don't-know-what-the-hell-he's-on-about, typical-Dumbledore way that had all of us stumped!"

"Hang on a second, hang on." George held up a hand. "Jumping to conclusions a bit, don't you think? How do we even know that when Dumbledore gave that book to Hermione it had anything to do with The Tale of the Three Brothers? Or you, for that matter?"

"We don't," said Fred simply. "But we can always ask Hermione."

George laughed. "Oh yeah - that would make for a nice conversation. 'Hi, Hermione - I've been having visions of my dead twin and I wondered if it had anything to do with that book Dumbledore gave you in his will?'"

"I'm not a vision," Fred groaned. "Unless you count me being a vision of loveliness."

"I don't," George told him. "Look - let's just keep things at a level of reality for the moment, shall we? There's a huge possibility that the fact that you found a book of children's stories and believe them to be linked to you, and the fact that Hermione happened to have a copy left to her by Dumbledore, might all just be one big, fat coincidence."

Fred narrowed his eyes, then pointed a finger at George with a mock-serious look on his face. He put on a deep, gravelly voice. "Maybe, buster," he said. "But I don't believe in coincidences."


*Restituo means 'restore' in Latin. I felt that reparo might not quite cover it in this case, nor would a spell for 'tidying'. The point of this spell is to restore the place back to normal, by repairing what can be repaired and putting it back in its rightful place. I couldn't remember one like this being used in the books (the closest was scourgify and that wasn't appropriate), so if anyone can think of any others that work better, I might change it.

Dusk had already fallen, the purple sky still glowing with dying sunlight, as George, with Fred, Apparated only a few yards from Angelina Johnson's home. He looked around, and saw himself in a small, quiet street, which he knew to be the only all-Wizarding Street for miles around, in a town somewhere just outside London. A dented tin road sign planted in the first house's garden read Picket Birch Lane - Resident Access Only.

He walked a little further up the road until the house numbers were in their hundreds. A Victorian-style terrace lined one side of the street, each house split up into neat, comfortable apartments. The second-floor flat at number 107 was Angelina's.

There was a light on in Angelina's sitting room, and George could see shadows moving around behind the thin curtains. He approached the door, a chunky, old-fashioned affair smothered in dark-green paint, and rapped the knocker three times.

"Which floor?" asked a brisk voice out of nowhere.

"Um, second," George replied, staring straight at the door. "Angelina Johnson's flat."

There was a pause. Then, "One moment, please," said the voice.

George leant against the sandy-coloured wall and waited. Fred had joined him, and was mimicking his position on the other side of the door. He had a strange, far-away look in his eyes as he gazed around the street, and George noticed that he kept glancing up to Angelina's window.

Suddenly, there was a click! from behind them and the door swung open. The brisk voice said, "Go in, please. Up the stairs, first door on the right."

The hall inside was dimly-lit and quiet, but not as old-fashioned as the house's exterior suggested. Beneath his feet were clean wooden floorboards, occasionally hidden by a colourful rug, while modern-style furniture lined the white walls. A tall lamp in the shape of a tree stood in one corner, its branches lit by glowing leaves. The whole effect was homely and inviting, and quite unlike some of the grander, more antiquated, Wizarding homes that George had visited.

"Looks like they've redecorated," Fred remarked quietly. "I'm sure the walls used to be green…"

"So, you can't recall our childhood memories, but you do remember the colour of Angelina's walls," muttered George. "Ok, upstairs, first door on the right."

He climbed up the carpeted stairs, Fred right behind him, and found himself in front of a plain, blue door marked with the number '107 b' in silver. He knocked.

"Come in, come in, it's open," called a voice from inside. After a moment's hesitation, George pushed open the door and walked in to Angelina's home.

The flat had not changed much since the last time he had visited. The living room was crowded with clean, comfortable furniture, centred around a wooden table with a dark-coloured throw hanging over it. A used cup and plate sat waiting to be taken back into the kitchen, next to an open magazine where the pages' pictures showed people in brightly-coloured sporting robes whizzing in and out of the frames on their broomsticks. A row of candles lined the middle of the table, and the windowsill at the far end of the room as well, the window that Fred had been staring at so solemnly from outside.

As George moved further into the room, dodging the edge of a dark red, squashy-looking sofa, he noticed a collection of photographs standing on the mantlepiece, some showing Angelina with her family, some with her friends, and one of an elderly couple that George guessed must be her grandparents. All of them were waving and smiling out at him, a couple pointing curiously and whispering to each other. At the back (the photograph containing someone who was waving and smiling the most vigorously) stood a picture of Angelina and Fred. George remembered taking that picture. It had been just after Angelina had left school, as both of them were stood outside the front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Fred had one arm wrapped tightly around Angelina's shoulders, the other one lifted high in the air and swinging back and forth as he waved a hearty greeting. He was grinning, and the expression looked rather mischievous. George was reminded why only a few seconds later, as the Fred in the photo suddenly turned his head towards Angelina and planted a kiss on her cheek. Angelina blushed crimson and smiled rather abashedly out at George. George smiled back.

"George, great to see you," said Angelina, as George swung round away from the photos. She was smiling broadly, but her eyes looked a little anxious. "I got your message from Lee - I just can't believe it." The worry in her eyes now spread to her whole face. "Thank Merlin you weren't there! Oh, if you'd ended up like Bandersnatch I don't know what I would have -" She stopped herself, taking in a deep breath. "Sit down, I'll only be a second."

She bustled through a door to the left, which George thought must lead to her bedroom. There was a soft, amber light coming through the gap in the doorway, and George could just see the dark wood posts at the end of a bed. He settled himself into one of Angelina's armchairs, and noticed Fred still lingering by the front door.

"I suppose Lee told you what we think the burglar was looking for?" George called through to Angelina.

She stuck her head round the door. "Yeah," she said, and disappeared again. Her next words were muffled slightly through the wall. "He said he thought it was the book. Do you really think he recognised you, then?"

"Must've done," George said. "Which means," he took in a deep breath, "he saw you too. I've told Lee to stay at his parents for a bit; we're not going to open the shop for a couple of days - make it look like we've got the message. And, just for extra precaution… I don't think I want you staying here on your own, now."

Angelina looked round the door again, smiling slightly. "I thought you'd say that," she told him. "Which is why I'm currently packing my stuff to stay with my aunt for a bit." She held up a hand, dangling from which was a weighty red suitcase.

George gave her a very reassured smile. He had been certain that she would put up a fight and refuse to leave, but then, he thought, she had been pretty shaken about Bandersnatch's death and the events of Friday night. Perhaps those things had changed her attitude.

"Good," he said. "Good. I - um… well, that's all I really came for." He stood up to leave. "Thought you might take a bit more persuading."

Angelina came out of the bedroom, a frown on her face. "Don't you want to stick around for a bit? Have a drink or something?"

"Er -" George was sure that her suggestion had been perfectly innocent, but he still felt his face flush. He glanced, unwillingly, at Fred, but his twin was not looking at either of them. He was staring fixedly at the floor. "Er - I - no," George stammered. "No, I don't think so. I - um - got something else to do. Could only stay for a bit…"

He trailed off, and Angelina nodded. "Alright," she said, shrugging. "Some other time, then."

"Yeah," George said, before he could stop himself. His face turned an even deeper shade of crimson. He coughed. "Yes, I mean - maybe when we're not on the run from some madman with a Snitch fixation." He grinned, feeling a little more relaxed. "Um… I'll see you, then."

He pulled open the door to the apartment, and took a step out into the corridor. Fred followed him, avoiding his brother's gaze and speeding towards the staircase. But as George went to close the door behind him, he heard Angelina shout him back. Turning round, he saw her standing in the doorway.

"Here," she said, pressing a piece of paper into his palm. "It's my aunt's address, in case you need anything." She smiled, and the soft light of the hall seemed to make her dark skin glow. "See you," she breathed, so quietly it was almost a whisper. "And George - be careful, won't you?"

As George left number 107 on Picket Birch Lane, he was sure he had said something like "Of course" or "You know I will be" in response to Angelina's whispered warning, but it was hard to recall. He remembered suddenly feeling as though his insides had melted, and that it had been very difficult to move his feet. He remembered muttering something, and watching her close the door to her apartment. And, he thought with a horrible surge of guilt, he remembered not wanting to walk away, not wanting her to close the door…

Fred had remained unbearably silent since they had left the apartment, had not said a word as they had Apparated home, and had simply laid down on his bed, his head buried in a book, the minute they had arrived back at the flat. George could not think of anything to say to him, and had resigned himself to standing in the kitchen, pretending to make a cup of tea.

After about an hour of staring at a chipped mug, his mind a million miles away, he decided it might be safe to return to his bedroom. Fred was still lying on his bed.

"Um…" George began feebly. Fred did not look up from his book. "Fred, for Merlin's sake -"

"What?" Fred shut the book and looked over at his brother. "I don't… I mean, she's… I'm dead, what does it matter?"

George closed his eyes, wishing that Fred had not just said that. He opened his mouth, prepared to spout any length of apology, but Fred interrupted him.

"Do you remember those Veela girls we got off with at Bill and Fleur's wedding?" he said abruptly.

"Er -" George was a little taken-aback by the statement, but the memory meant that he couldn't help smiling. "Yeah…"

"I only just did," Fred continued. "At Angelina's flat. I remember - Angelina wasn't there, but she heard about it from someone else. And I… I never had time to apologise. I never properly said sorry, told her that I was drunk and not thinking and upset about your bleeding ear and it didn't mean anything. And that was all I could think about the whole time I was there." He bit his lip, staring into space. "I bet she remembers."

George shook his head. "I'm sure she doesn't," he said. "That was such a long time ago. And so many other things happened, I mean - we were in the middle of a war!"

Fred nodded slowly, but he did not look as though he really agreed. A rather awkward silence fell over the room, before Fred reached over for his scrapbook, sat up a little straighter and said, "By the way, I found this." He flipped open the scrapbook and pulled out a small slip of newspaper, which he held out for George to see. "It was the summer before the wedding - we kept it because it was an article about how well we'd done in our first year."

George took the paper and quickly scanned the article. "Oh yeah," he said. "The Prophet did a thing about businesses still striving despite the war, or something. But what has this got to do with -?"

"Look on the back," Fred told him and George turned the piece of paper over.

He frowned. "It's only half an article, you can't even read most of the lines."

"I know," Fred took it back and ran a finger down the column. His forlorn expression was fading as his tone became more excited. "But look at what you can read. This is all about what happened to some of Dumbledore's possessions after his death - don't you remember? In his will he kept most of his stuff at Hogwarts, but left a bunch of random things to different people. I mean, this article doesn't say exactly what went where, but look here -" He pointed to a paragraph near the end of an article, and read out loud, "A few prize pieces of the late headmaster's furniture and knickknacks were left to Rustin and Splinter's Antique Shop, Diagon Alley, previously owned by the infamous Jasper Rustin, a great friend of Dumbledore's from his earlier life." He looked up at George, his eyes wide. "Dumbledore again."

George stared at the article, hardly able to believe what he had just read. "Dumbledore knew them… Dumbledore left something to them in his will… and they've just been burgled." He handed the slip of newspaper back to Fred, who replaced it in his scrapbook. "Ok, ok," he said. "So - a Quidditch Supplies shop is burgled, the owner found dead, and then we hear a story about Dumbledore and some goblins being associated with the shop. Then, just a few nights later, an Antiques shop is burgled, and we find out that Dumbledore had left stuff to them in his will." He began pacing the room, nodding along with his words. "Then, to top it all off, you come back, and then meet Dumbledore, who tells us we're 'on the right track'." He stopped, turning to face Fred with a deep crease in his forehead. "What on earth are we supposed to get from all that?"

Fred looked at him with a serious expression. "I think it's pretty clear," he said. "I'm willing to bet, in the rest of that article, it mentions the Quidditch shop - that's probably where Lee heard the story about the goblins in the first place. Dumbledore left stuff in his will to Banders, and to Jasper Rustin, and someone wants to get their hands on it. Then you get in the way, so they burgle this place to tell you to keep out of it."

He scribbled a few notes into his scrapbook and placed it to one side, a resolute expression on his face.

"So," began George, now looking a little apprehensive. "Why kill Bandersnatch and not Rustin?"

"Didn't need to kill him," said Fred. "Bandersnatch happened to be there at the time - got in the way. Plus, he already knew about the burglar: I'm betting whoever it was started writing those letters to him - the ones Angelina said were left in the shop - asking for the stuff back, blackmailing him. And he wouldn't budge, so our mystery man decided the only option was to burgle him." He shrugged. "Obviously, he didn't waste time trying to do the same thing with the Antiques shop, just burgled them straight off."

George was nodding now. "Yeah," he breathed. "That makes sense. But - how would someone know the contents of Dumbledore's will?"

"I don't think he does," said Fred. "I think he just read this article, or one like it, and started picking off the places mentioned one by one. I mean - nothing's been taken from any of the places that he's burgled yet, so he must be looking for something in particular. If he'd read the will, he'd know where that particular thing went, but I don't think he does - he's just working through a process of elimination."

He was scratching his chin now, thinking over what he had just said, while George continued to nod. Then, George's eyes became slightly glazed. He stared out of the window, then towards the stairs. "Wait a second…" he said quietly. "That morning - the one before you arrived, when someone sent me the necklace in that box, I read something in the Prophet. What was it?" He tapped the side on his head, trying to remember. "Something about a break-in, or attempted break-in, at Hogwarts. I'm sure it was something like that… Yeah, and then Angelina came in asking about spy glasses, and you came back - that was a bit of a distraction - and I completely forgot about it." He pointed at Fred, a rather determined look on his face. "Where do they archive the Daily Prophet?"

Fred shrugged. "Um… the library I think - the big one just off Diagon Alley."

"Right," George said, beginning to pace again. "I'll go and look up last week - find that article. I'll bet you it's linked to all this. I mean - if most of Dumbledore's stuff stayed at Hogwarts, then that's where our man would look first, isn't it?"

"Absolutely," agreed Fred. "And then he'd - hang on…" It was his turn to sport the far-off expression. "George, hang on a second. I just said nothing was stolen from the places, didn't I? But, there was stuff taken from the Quidditch place - I've just remembered. Those Snitches."

George looked a little stunned. "And in his will," he said, knowing exactly what Fred was about to say, "Dumbledore left Harry a -"

"- Snitch," finished Fred. "If you were looking for a Snitch, where's the first place you'd go?"

"A Quidditch shop," said George, a mixture of excitement and anxiety in his eyes. "And where would you go to find an ancient book of runic fairytales?"

"An Antiques shop," Fred replied, a broad, fervent grin spreading across his face. "Or, possibly, a book shop."

"Flourish and Blotts."

"Yep."

"But they haven't been burgled yet."

"Yet."

George shook his head, running both hands through his hair. "No way," he said. "It can't be - you really think this mystery burglar is looking for the stuff that Dumbledore left Harry and Hermione?"

"And possibly Ron," suggested Fred. "What did Ron get again?"

"The Deluminator," George told him. "Where would you look for one of those? Isn't it supposed to be unique?"

"Maybe Hogwarts?" said Fred. "Or some kind of accoutrements shop?"

"Yeah," George nodded. He sighed, and then looked more determined than ever. "I've got to find that article," he said. "I've got to see where else it mentions, and then I think we should warn them. What if somebody else gets killed? We've got to tell the people who might be in danger, make sure they're prepared."

"Agreed," said Fred. He had pulled the scrapbook back from the table and was now jotting down a 'to-do' list on one side of a page. He looked up at his twin, with a slightly concerned air. "And… what about Harry, Ron and Hermione?" he asked. "Do you think we should tell them?"

There was a pause. George had not really considered this - if they really were in danger, then it was probably the best thing to let them know. But how would his mother react if she found out that her son and his two best friends were in danger, only a year after the war had ended and when she already had so much else to worry about?

He took in a deep breath. "I don't know," he said. "I mean, we probably should, but… We don't even know if those are the things this guy is looking for. Why worry them for nothing?"

Fred closed the scrapbook. "Probably best to tell them, though, isn't it? I mean, it's not as though Harry hasn't dealt with this kind of danger before." He laughed.

"Yeah," George said. "Ok - tomorrow. I'll go home and tell them - best not to use an owl in case Mum reads it. And then we'll come back here and go to the library, look up that article." He breathed out a long sigh and sank onto his bed, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Oh, it's all coming together now… mostly, anyway."

"Ha! Yeah," said Fred. "Good little detective team, aren't we? I can see it now: Weasley and Weasley - private investigators." He grinned, then seemed to shiver slightly. "Hey, can you light a fire or something? It's a bit cold in here."

"Cold?" George frowned, but did not move from where he was splayed out on his bed. "I didn't think you could feel - I mean, I didn't think you got cold."

"Oh, cheers," said Fred. "Ghosts have feelings too, you know - or, whatever it is that I am." He pulled his bedcovers up around him and sat huddled in a heap of patchwork quilt. "You know, I'm beginning to sympathise more and more with Moaning Myrtle everyday… I hope it doesn't last."

George awoke the next morning to sunlight glaring through his window and tried to remember why he felt so ill at ease. The memory of last night's conversation with Fred, not to mention the uncomfortable visit to Angelina's before that, buzzed blurrily into his mind as he washed, dressed and trudged downstairs to open up the shop.

He stared around at the half-empty shelves, the result of so much of his stock having been destroyed, and felt a pang of anger. His determination to find out who was behind all this reinforced, he slumped down behind the desk and began fiddling with the till. His mind, however, was a million miles away - thinking about the Daily Prophet archives and the contents of Dumbledore's will.

'I wish I hadn't thrown that paper away,' he thought, glancing at the rubbish bin under his desk, which had swallowed the paper whole only a few days ago. The bin made a small rumbling sound, as though it were hungry, and a trickle of tattered receipts tumbled out of its mouth. 'There'll be no getting anything back out of there."

With a strange feeling of annoyance, George also reflected that that bin had also consumed the box containing the Puking Pastels and his mysterious necklace. The package had also held a piece of paper with an address - an address which he could have visited to ask about the necklace. For the second time that morning, he reaffirmed his decision to buy a new bin.

There was a thundering of footsteps on the stairs. "That was quick!" cried Fred, moving swiftly over to him. "I take five minutes to go and investigate whether the fungus in our kitchen can talk yet and when I come back you're already down here. Anyway," he suddenly lowered his voice to a rather conspiratorial level, leaning closer to George. "Don't say anything."

"Why not?" said George.

"Shh! I said don't say anything!"

"But why -"

"Sh!"

"Alright" George mouthed, the words escaping as the smallest of whispers. "Why not?"

Fred straightened up, glancing furtively behind him at the rest of the shop. "Because," he said seriously, "I think someone's listening to us."

"What?" said George, completely forgetting to stay silent.

Fred glared at him. "And you say I've got a bad memory," he said. "Just shut up for the next few minutes, ok? I'm being serious. I found this under a floorboard in our room." He held out his palm across the desk, and George saw what looked like a small, metal beetle lying in Fred's hand. Its legs were splayed out in different directions and its shining blue wing cases were chipped and dented. Tentatively, George took it and held it up to the light. He half-expected it to start buzzing and fly off.

"I had to bash it a bit to stop it working," Fred told him, staring at the little bug with narrowed eyes. "It was making this strange crackling noise - a bit like the wireless does when it's trying to find a station - and then I noticed its wings were open and there were these tiny speakers inside."

"Weird," George whispered. "You're right, it sounds like one of those listening charms. That little knick-knacks shop down the road - Mickey Clickitt's place - sells stuff like this, we could ask him." He lowered his hand and put the metal beetle down on the desk, staring at it with a mixture of confusion and repulsion. The strange little thing lay there on its back, the splayed-out legs making it look as though it was trying to right itself.

Fred took in a deep breath. "If the burglar planted this one, there are doubtless more of them," he said, sounding ominous. "You can go see Mr. Clickitt about it on our way out."

"Way out where?" mouthed George, reaching under the desk for a small, cardboard box and slipping the bashed beetle into it.

"To meet Harry and Ron," Fred said. "I sent them a letter telling them to meet us in the Leaky Cauldron around half ten. Hermione can't come apparently, something about bridesmaid dresses…" George was staring up at him, looking rather alarmed. "Don't worry -" Fred told him. "I didn't give anything away. I just thought it would be quicker for them to come here, and there'd be less chance of Mum finding out. Anyway, we can't meet them here anymore, so I thought the Leaky Cauldron would be the next best thing - crowded, you know."

George nodded approvingly and shut tight the lid of the box. He lifted it up to his ear and listened intently for a moment, but no sound came from the inside. Apparently satisfied, he slipped the box into his robes and whispered, "Right. Let's go interrogate an old shopkeeper, shall we?"

~***~

Clickitt's Wizarding Gadget Shop stood just inside a narrow street leading off Diagon Alley. On the outside, it looked shabby, dingy and generally unwelcoming - the sign hanging lopsided and every inch of paint peeling; only those who had visited the shop before knew that a cave of wonders lay inside.

George pushed open the door and stepped over the dusty threshold, Fred following him, and they found themselves in a tiny room crammed practically to overflowing with tables and shelves of bizarre accoutrements. No order had been established, there were no categories for the products sold, no labels on anything: everything in this shop was unique, either second-hand or invented by the owner, and the price arose strictly from whatever mood Mr. Clickitt happened to be in on the day of your purchase.

Right next to the door stood an umbrella stand which cried, "Lovely morning, guv'nor!" as George passed by it. On a table just next to them, amid a selection of grotesque ornaments, sat a large glass barometer, a closer look revealing that the bubbles inside it were labelled not with temperatures, but phrases like 'better take a scarf', and 'wear your sunhat today'. A rattle from overhead made George look up, and he saw several model broomsticks racing each other around the ceiling, narrowly avoiding the large, old-fashioned hanging lamp struggling to fill the room with light. There were pots of invisible ink, maps that changed depending on where you were, and teacups that tested your drinks for unwanted potions. Tearing their eyes from the treasure trove around them, Fred and George grinned at each other - they knew this place very well indeed.

Negotiating a route between the towering stands of stock, they made their way, cautiously, to the till at the back of the shop, their journey accompanied by clicking and whirring sounds from all sides. Dodging behind a mirror which served as a spy for when you were out of the house, George spotted a low wooden desk pushed against the shop's back wall. Behind it, almost swallowed by his hugely oversized cloak, sat Mickey Clickitt. He was a skinny, wiry man, with patchy earth-coloured hair and watery eyes that were so large they looked as though they were about to tumble out of his head. His sallow skin was stretched tight across his face, forcing his lips into thin lines and throwing every bone in his skull into sharp relief. He was leaning back in his chair, his lanky legs crossed on top of the desk, using a long set of pincers to prod at something held up to his face.

When he saw George approach, however, he dropped the object onto the desk and held out his thin hands, each sporting exceptionally thin fingers. "Georgie boy!" he cried, his voice slightly hoarse but brimming with delight. "Long time no see…"

George shook hands, grinning broadly, and Mickey Clickitt continued: "How's the family, eh? Haven't seen any of you since, oh, last November, I reckon. Heard about old Banders - terrible business, poor bloke. Very sorry to hear that."

"Yeah," said George. "Very sad. Business good?"

"Oh, booming as usual," laughed Mr. Clickitt. "Got a load of school kids in here the other day, looking to get stuff to help 'em sneak around Hogwarts - at your recommendation, no doubt? I swear I get half my customers from you, my boy, you know if you ever need anything I'll be quite happy to oblige! You and your brother -" He stopped short, wavering slightly. His bulbous eyes swept rapidly over George's face, as though checking to see that it was ok to carry on. George gave him an understanding nod.

"Actually," he said, "there is something you can do for me." He reached inside his robes and pulled out the box containing the peculiar metal beetle. He placed it on the desk and cautiously prized off the lid, peering inside to check that the bug was still there. Mr. Clickitt leaned forward, staring into the box. Then he pointed his wand towards the box and muttered, "wingardium leviosa."

The little beetle rose upwards, spinning slightly, and the shopkeeper stared curiously at it. "Where did you find this?" he asked, directing his wand to turn the bug over so that its legs stuck up in the air.

"Under a floorboard in my flat," George replied, and Mickey Clickitt's eyebrows shot upwards.

"Goodness me, boy, goodness me," he wheezed. Then he let his wand drop and the beetle fell back into its box. "Yep - I'm sorry to say, that's mine. Made a few of those, oh, month or so back. You know Muggles have got those little electronical things they stick inside people's houses to listen to 'em? Know what they call 'em?" George shook his head. "Call 'em bugs," Mr. Clickitt laughed. "Bugs! Weird, eh? Well - sort of inspired me. Built these little tin ones in pairs, put a charm on 'em so if you put one in someone's house, you can use the other one to listen through it. Sold most of 'em in a couple of days, then a bloke from the Ministry came in - bought the lot. Asked me to make a bunch more of 'em, said he'd pay a high price. Weren't that high, mind. But I did it anyway - made another box and gave it to the Ministry, then kept a dozen or so for the shop. One of my bestsellers."

He pushed the box back towards George, who looked a little disappointed at the news that the beetles had been sold to so many people. Apparently it was not going to be that easy to find out who had 'bugged' his flat.

"Can you remember any of the people who bought them?" he asked, not really expecting a positive answer. "Did anyone buy two, or maybe three, at once?"

Mickey Clickitt wrinkled his nose, his bugling eyes flicking to the ceiling as he tried to remember. "Let me see, now… There was a young lady who bought one, said she was going to slip it into her boyfriend's coat. She came back and bought another one a few days later, because apparently the boyfriend had found the first one." He returned his gaze to George, an apologetic look on his face. "Somehow, though, I don't think that's what you want to hear. But, as far as I can remember, nobody else bought more than one apart from the Ministry."

George felt a rustle beside him and noticed that Fred was now leaning against the desk. "Ask him which Ministry person it was," he said.

"Do you know who it was from the Ministry?" George asked Mr. Clickitt. The wiry shopkeeper shrugged.

"No idea," he said. "Short man, bald, looked like he could do with losing a few, if you know what I mean." He chuckled, again looking slightly apologetic. "I couldn't tell him from half the workers there. All the same, those civil servants. Oh wait - hang on… he said he thought these - the bugs, that is - would impress his new boss, that's all I can remember."

George glanced at Fred, who was suddenly looking very alert. "His new boss?" George said. "So - he must work for a department that's just had a bit of a change-around."

"Maybe." Mr. Clickitt shrugged again. "But that was about a month back - and there's been a lot changed at the Ministry lately. Could be from a load of departments that've got new people in charge." He blew out a long sigh. "Sorry, lad, but that's the best I can do. This old brain starting to get dust in the cogs." He tapped the side of his head, laughing. George smiled, but could not quite hide his disappointment.

"Well," he said, turning to leave, "if you think of anything, let me know." He lifted the box from the desk and shoved it back in his robes. "See you, Mickey."

"Yeah," said Fred, even though the shopkeeper couldn't hear him. "Nice to be back in here, mate."

Mr. Clickitt waved a skinny hand as he settled back into his chair. "Good seeing you, Georgie boy," he called. "You need any more help, I'm always here!"

The door to the gadget shop clanged shut as George and Fred stepped out into the narrow street. Diagon Alley was already beginning to fill up with shoppers, despite it being barely ten o'clock, and the bustle of noise nicely disguised the twins' (or rather, George's) conversation as they made their way to the Leaky Cauldron.

"Someone from the Ministry bought loads…" George muttered, thinking hard. "So - who in the Ministry would want to buy a bunch of listening devices?"

"Aurors?" suggested Fred. "Although a lardy bloke with no hair doesn't really sound like an Auror… unless he was a Metamorphmagus. Maybe they didn't even work for the Ministry at all, it was just an excuse to order loads?"

"It's possible," George agreed. He tried to picture the face that he had seen in Mr. Bandersnatch's shop only two nights ago. The shadowy outline of the cloaked figure swam before his eyes, but there was no definition to the image. All he could remember of the face was that it had been fuming with rage. "Perhaps there're two of them working together? Or worse - loads of people, all conspiring to get back the contents of Dumbledore's will. Maybe they're the people who originally owned the stuff he was giving away!"

Fred looked impressed. "Ah," he said, "now there's a theory." They reached the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, and George pushed open the door. Fred had to dodge speedily out of the way as a pair of huge, angry-looking wizards came stomping out of the pub.

"That woman's got it coming to her," one of them muttered murderously to the other. "Mark my words… The name Skeeter's got a black mark on it."

Frozen in the doorway, George looked over at Fred. "Rita Skeeter," he breathed, looking alarmed. "Merlin, I didn't count on running into her…"

"I look on it as a golden opportunity," said Fred, as George raised his eyebrows. "Let's see how much she really knows about the case of the dead shopkeeper."