𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐋 𝐈 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 | f. w

7

The quiet night air felt thicker, somehow, as Erin, Fred, and George walked slowly down the narrow cobbled lane, away from the mysterious place where they'd been sheltered. The stars above were muted by clouds, and a faint mist curled around them, lending a strange otherworldly feeling to the empty streets. The three walked in silence, as though each were caught up in their own thoughts, the weight of the night's revelations hanging heavily between them.

Erin glanced at Fred, his face cast in shadow, and then at George—or rather, Oliver, as she'd come to know him—who walked slightly behind, hands shoved into his pockets, his gaze distant.

It was strange, knowing that George was here beside her, but not quite. His easy grin, his playful sarcasm—all familiar yet unfamiliar, like something out of her dreams. She'd spent years reading about Fred and George, and even with her newly returned memories, the reality of them still felt hard to grasp.

They reached a quiet inn with a sign hanging above the door, shaped like an old broomstick with faint, magical etchings glowing on its surface. Fred pushed open the door, holding it for Erin and George, and they stepped into the warmth of a dimly lit common room. The interior was cozy and rustic, with large wooden beams overhead and enchanted candles floating near the low ceiling. Erin inhaled, catching the comforting scent of woodsmoke and something faintly spicy, like cinnamon and clove.

George—no, Oliver—broke the silence, glancing around and giving a low whistle. "Been a while since I've been somewhere this cozy," he muttered, taking a seat near the fireplace. "You'd think with the kind of magic we've been dealing with, someone would've invented a way to make a place like this appear when you need it most."

Fred chuckled, a wry smile flickering across his face. "Always thinking of convenience, aren't you?" He exchanged a look with Erin, the warmth in his gaze grounding her as they sat down next to George.

As they settled, a quiet stillness fell over them again, and Erin found herself watching Fred and George, the silent understanding that passed between them. Despite the haziness of George's memories, the bond between the two was unmistakable. She could see it in the way Fred's gaze softened every time he looked at his brother, in the way George, even with fragments of himself missing, leaned on Fred like a beacon of certainty.

Erin wanted to ask so many things: how long had Fred known the truth about their past, about George's memory loss? Had he been hiding this reality for as long as they'd known each other, keeping it locked away until she was ready to know? And what did George remember? What did it feel like to exist in this world with only pieces of his own story?

She sat quietly between Fred and George in the warmth of the small inn, her gaze drifting between them. She watched the brothers, so similar in their gestures, their slight smirks, the faint shadow of something mischievous in their eyes. There was a sense of recognition between them that didn't need words, an ease that went deeper than memories. They didn't need to remember their past at Hogwarts or the intricate magical history they'd once been part of; they knew each other on a level that couldn't be erased.

Erin could feel Fred's hand resting over hers, grounding her in the present, but her mind felt as though it were drifting between times. Her memories with him, with George, with the entire hidden world she was only just beginning to remember, felt less like scenes from her own life and more like moments from an old, half-remembered story—beautiful and incomplete.

She looked up at Fred, meeting his steady gaze, his hand warm and solid against hers. She knew, logically, that these feelings—the quiet connection between them, the pull she felt every time he looked at her—were real. But the memories, the certainty that they belonged together, were like delicate threads drifting just out of reach.