The Skirt and the Scars

The first time Fred Weasley walked into the Gryffindor common room wearing a skirt, George nearly choked on his pumpkin juice.

Not just any skirt. Short. Black. Pleated. And a tight blouse laced up the front, leaving a dangerous V of pale skin exposed. Everyone stared. Fred tossed his hair—grown longer now, brushing his shoulders—and strutted past like he dared anyone to say a word.

George set down his goblet slow. "Fred."

"Georgie." Fred didn't stop. He headed for the portrait hole, a small beaded bag swinging from his wrist.

"Where you going?"

"Out."

"Out where?"

"Out out." Fred's smile was sharp, almost weaponized. "Don't wait up."

The portrait hole swung shut. The common room seemed to exhale. Seamus leaned forward from his spot beside George, eyebrows up.

"Was that your brother, or did someone Polyjuice a fashion model?"

George didn't laugh. He stared at the closed portrait, a cold knot in his stomach. Fred had been acting strange for weeks. The short skirts, the heels, the makeup that made his eyes look dark and hollow all at once. He went out nearly every night, came back early hours smelling of firewhisky and something else—floral and sharp, like expensive cologne.

"I don't know what's gotten into him," George muttered.

Seamus rubbed his shoulder. "Maybe he's just exploring. You know. Finding himself."

"Finding himself in someone's bed, more like."

Seamus's hand stilled. "George."

"Sorry." George ran a hand through his hair. "I just—he won't talk to me. Won't even look at me half the time."

That was the worst part. The twin bond they'd shared since the womb, the wordless understanding that let them finish each other's sentences and plot each other's pranks—gone. When George looked at Fred now, he saw a stranger wearing his brother's face.

---

The next confrontation happened three days later.

George found Fred in their dormitory, standing before the mirror, applying deep red lipstick with surgical precision. Wearing a dress so short it barely qualified as a shirt, heeled boots laced up to his knees. His neck bare, collarbones sharp against the low neckline.

"Fred." George closed the door behind him. "We need to talk."

"Busy." Fred didn't turn around. "Have plans."

"Cancel them."

"Can't." Fred's voice clipped, dismissive. He leaned closer to the mirror, touching up a smudge. "Marcus is waiting."

The name hit George like a hex. Marcus. Marcus Flint. The hulking former Slytherin Quidditch captain who'd left Hogwarts two years ago but apparently hadn't left Fred alone.

"Flint?" George's voice rose. "You've been sneaking out to see Marcus Flint?"

Now Fred turned, his expression hard. "Don't start."

"He's a git. Twice your size and half your intellect—"

"Careful, Georgie."

"—and what the hell could you possibly see in him?"

Fred's smile was brittle. "He sees me."

"Everyone sees you. You're wearing about three inches of fabric."

"Then maybe you're not looking properly." Fred grabbed his bag and pushed past George, shoulder checking him hard enough to send a shock through both their bodies. The twin bond flared—a burst of anger so bright it was almost visible—and then Fred was gone, leaving George standing alone in the silent room.

That night, George lay awake for hours. Seamus slept beside him, warm and trusting, but George couldn't find rest. He listened to the wind howling against the castle stones, watched shadows stretch across the ceiling.

Fred didn't come home until nearly three in the morning.

George heard the door creak open. Heard footsteps that stumbled rather than walked. Heard a sound—a choked, wet sound—that made his blood run cold.

"Fred?"

No answer. George sat up. In the dim light through the curtains, he saw his brother leaning against the door, arms wrapped around himself. His dress torn at the shoulder. Makeup smeared, mascara running in dark tracks down his cheeks. And he was shaking.

"Freddie." George was out of bed before he knew he'd moved. He crossed the room, reaching out, but Fred flinched away.

"Don't."

"Don't what? Fred, you're—"

"I said don't." Fred's voice cracked. He stumbled toward his bed, pulling off his boots with trembling hands. "Just go back to sleep. Forget you saw anything."

"Like hell I will."

George watched in mounting horror as Fred yanked off the torn dress and pulled on his old pajamas—the faded ones with the Chudley Cannons logo, the ones he'd worn since they were twelve. The sight of his brother in those familiar clothes, after weeks of sequins and leather, was somehow the most disturbing thing of all.

"You're not going to tell me what happened?" George asked softly.

Fred climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. He looked small. Young. Like the boy George had grown up with, not the stranger who'd been wearing his face.

"It was an accident." Fred's voice barely a whisper. "We were playing around. It got a little... intense. That's all."

"Playing around."

"Can you just drop it?"

George wanted to push. Wanted to grab Fred by the shoulders and shake the truth out of him. But the look in Fred's eyes—that desperate, hunted look—stopped him cold.

"Okay," George said. "Okay. But I'm here. You know that, right? Whatever it is, I'm here."

Fred turned his face to the wall. "Goodnight, George."

---

The next morning, the transformation was complete.

Fred emerged from the bathroom wearing a long-sleeved jacket, a heavy hoodie, and a thick jumper over it all. The collar pulled up high, nearly touching his jaw. His face scrubbed clean of makeup, hair pulled back in a tight knot.

"Bit warm for all that, isn't it?" Seamus asked, glancing up from his breakfast.

Fred shrugged. "Running cold."

George said nothing. He watched his brother pick at a piece of toast, watched his every movement. The way he kept his chin tucked. The way he avoided turning his head too fast.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

---

It was Professor Vector's Arithmancy class that finally broke the dam.

The classroom on the fifth floor, facing south, afternoon sun streaming through the windows like a spotlight. George sat two rows behind Fred, close enough to see the way he shifted in his seat, tugging at his collar.

"Is it just me," Fred said, his voice carrying across the quiet room, "or is the air conditioning broken?"

Professor Vector looked up from her notes. "The air conditioning is functioning perfectly, Mr. Weasley. Perhaps you'd be more comfortable if you removed your outer layers."

Fred's face went pale. "I'm fine."

"You're clearly overheated. Take off the hoodie."

"I said I'm fine."

The class was watching now. George could feel the weight of their stares, could see the beads of sweat forming on Fred's brow. His brother looked like a trapped animal, eyes darting toward the door.

"Mr. Weasley, I'm not asking." Professor Vector's voice had that tone—the one that brooked no argument. "Remove the hoodie, or I'll have to deduct points."

For a long moment, Fred didn't move. Then, with shaking hands, he reached up and pulled down the zipper.

The hoodie fell away. Then the jumper underneath. Then the jacket.

The classroom went silent.

Fred's neck was a study in violence. Finger-shaped bruises bloomed across his throat in ugly constellations of purple and black. Some fresh, livid red around the edges. Others faded to sickly green and yellow, suggesting days old. The marks wrapped around his neck like a collar, like someone had tried to squeeze the life out of him.

George was on his feet before his brain caught up with his body. "Fred—"

Fred's eyes rolled back. He swayed, reached for the desk, missed. And then he crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

---

The next few hours were chaos.

George rode with Fred to the hospital wing, holding his brother's hand as Madam Pomfrey's wand flashed over him. Watched her face shift from professional detachment to barely concealed alarm. Heard her mutter spells under her breath, felt the sharp tang of potions in the air.

When she finally straightened, her expression was grim.

"Mr. Weasley, there are two things I need to tell you."

Fred was awake now, propped up on pillows, his face ashen. George sat beside him, gripping his hand.

"First, the bruising on your neck is consistent with strangulation. Manual strangulation. Someone wrapped their hands around your throat and squeezed until you nearly lost consciousness."

Fred's hand tightened in George's. He said nothing.

"Second, I found traces of an illegal substance in your system. It's called Molly—a magical variant of an even more dangerous Muggle drug. It induces euphoria, lowers inhibitions, and makes the user highly susceptible to suggestion. It's also highly addictive."

George felt like the floor had dropped out from under him. "What?"

"Someone has been drugging him," Madam Pomfrey said bluntly. "Repeatedly, based on the concentration levels. It's been building in his system for weeks."

The portrait of the hospital wing banged open. Molly Weasley burst through, her face ashen, Arthur right behind her. They'd been Floo-called the moment Fred was admitted.

"Oh, my boy." Molly was at Fred's bedside in an instant, her hands hovering over his face, his neck, as if afraid to touch. "Who did this to you? Who?"

"Mum." Fred's voice cracked. "Mum, please—"

"We'll press charges," Arthur said, his voice hard. George had never heard his father sound like that. "Whoever did this will face the full weight of the Ministry—"

"No." Fred's voice rose, desperate. "No, you can't. You can't."

"Frederick Weasley—"

"It was Marcus, okay?" The words tumbled out, raw and ragged. "But it was an accident. He didn't mean to—we were just—he loves me, Mum. He loves me."

The room went silent. George felt something cold settle in his chest, something that felt like the beginning of dread.

"Marcus Flint," Arthur said slowly. "That boy who used to play Quidditch with the Slytherins?"

"He's different now," Fred said. "I know how it looks, but he's changed. He just—he has a temper sometimes, but he never means it. And we love each other. He says we're going to get a flat together after I graduate. He says we're going to be together forever."

"Forever." George's voice came out flat. "He nearly killed you, Freddie."

"It was an accident!"

"Molly is a drug," Madam Pomfrey interjected. "It's often used by abusers to keep their victims compliant. It makes the user dependent, confused, and vulnerable to manipulation."

Fred's face crumpled. "Stop. Please, just stop. You don't understand. He needs me. I make him better."

"You're covered in bruises," George said, and his voice broke on the last word. "You look like someone tried to murder you. Please, Fred. Please just look at what's happening."

But Fred wouldn't meet his eyes. He turned his face away, shoulders shaking, and whispered, "You just don't get it."

---

Molly and Arthur pressed charges anyway. But without Fred's cooperation, without his testimony, the case went nowhere. Marcus was questioned, released, and warned to stay away from Hogwarts.

He didn't.

Months passed. The bruises faded, but the behavior didn't. If anything, Fred got worse. The skirts got shorter. The makeup got heavier. The nights out got longer.

But now George went with him.

It wasn't that he approved. It wasn't that he'd given up. It was that he'd rather watch Fred destroy himself than lose him entirely.

They went to parties in abandoned classrooms and secret rooms. Went to pubs in Hogsmeade, drinking cheap firewhisky until the world blurred. Fred would dance with strangers, press against them in the dark, let them buy him drinks and touch his waist. And George would sit in the corner, watching, waiting, making sure his brother got home alive.

"You don't have to do this," Seamus told him one night, as George pulled on his coat to follow Fred out. "You could let him go. Let him learn his lesson."

"His lesson might kill him."

"He's going to kill himself anyway, the way he's going."

George turned, and the look on his face made Seamus step back. "Don't. Don't say that. He's my brother."

"I know." Seamus's voice softened. "I know, love. I'm sorry."

George kissed him, quick and hard, and then he followed Fred into the night.

---

The party was in the dungeons, hosted by some seventh-year who'd somehow gotten their hands on a case of Ogden's Finest. The room packed, music loud, air thick with smoke and sweat.

Fred disappeared into the crowd within minutes. George found a dark corner and watched.

He saw Fred find Marcus. Saw the way Fred lit up when the older man pulled him close. Saw the way Marcus's hands slid down Fred's back, possessive and claiming. Saw the way Fred leaned into him, trusting, vulnerable.

And then, as the night wore on, George saw the cracks.

He saw the way Marcus's grip tightened when Fred talked to anyone else. The way his voice dropped low, hissing something in Fred's ear that made his brother flinch. The way he steered Fred away from the crowd, into darker corners, where no one could see.

George followed.

He found them in an empty classroom, the door cracked open just enough for him to see inside. Fred pressed against the wall, Marcus looming over him. The air thick with tension.

"I told you to stay away from him," Marcus was saying.

"He's just a friend, Marcus. I wasn't—"

"I don't care what you were doing. You looked at him. You smiled at him. You belong to me."

"I know." Fred's voice small. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking—"

"Damn right you weren't thinking." Marcus grabbed Fred's chin, forcing his head up. "You never think. That's why you need me. To think for you."

"Yes." Fred's eyes wet, but he was nodding. "I know. I need you."

Something inside George cracked. This wasn't love. This was something else entirely—something parasitic, something that had hollowed out his brother and filled the empty space with poison.

George pushed open the door. "Get your hands off him."

Marcus turned, a sneer curling his lip. "Weasley. Should have known you'd be lurking around. Can't let go of your brother's apron strings, can you?"

"I said get your hands off him."

"Or what? You'll tell your mummy?" Marcus laughed, harsh and echoing off the stone walls. "Freddie, control your pet."

Fred looked between them, his face pale and drawn. "George, please. Just go. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're terrified." George stepped closer. "Look at his hands, Fred. Look at where they are."

Fred's gaze dropped. Marcus's hand still wrapped around his chin. His other hand pressed against Fred's chest, right over his heart. And his fingers digging in, hard enough to leave marks.

"It's okay," Fred said, but his voice shook. "It's okay, he just—he doesn't know his own strength—"

"He knows exactly what he's doing." George was close now, close enough to see the way Marcus's eyes glittered in the dim light. "This isn't love, Fred. This is control. This is him breaking you down until there's nothing left but what he wants you to be."

"Shut up." Marcus's voice went low and dangerous. "You don't know anything. You don't know what he needs."

"I know he doesn't need to be drugged. I know he doesn't need to be choked. I know he doesn't need to be afraid."

Marcus's grip on Fred tightened. "I said shut your mouth, or I'll shut it for you."

"George." Fred's voice was pleading now. "Please. Just leave. I'll talk to you tomorrow, I promise—"

"No." George planted his feet. "I'm not leaving without you."

The party raged on somewhere down the hall, oblivious. The music pounded through the walls like a heartbeat. And in this small, dark room, three people stood at a precipice.

Marcus moved first.

He shoved Fred aside—hard enough that Fred's head cracked against the wall, hard enough that he slid to the floor in a daze. And then Marcus turned on George, his fists clenched.

"You want to protect him? Fine. Let's see how well you protect yourself."

The fight was brutal, ugly, and anything but fair.

Marcus bigger, stronger. His punches landed like bludgeoning hexes, each one sending shockwaves through George's body. George fought back with desperation, with years of suppressed fear and rage, but he was outmatched.

Then there was a flash of movement. A shriek of fury. And Fred launched himself at Marcus, fingers clawing, teeth bared.

"Leave him alone! Leave my brother alone!"

Marcus caught him mid-lunge, wrapped a hand around his throat, and slammed him against the wall.

"You think you can fight me?" Marcus's voice a snarl. "You think you can leave me? I made you. I own you. You're nothing without me, do you understand? Nothing."

Fred gasped, his feet kicking uselessly off the ground. His hands scrabbled at Marcus's grip, but it was iron, unyielding.

Something inside George snapped.

He grabbed a chair—a heavy, oak chair—and brought it down across Marcus's back.

The impact sickening. The chair splintered. Marcus crumpled. And Fred fell to the ground, gasping, clutching his throat.

George was on Marcus in an instant, straddling him, fist pulling back—

"George." Fred's voice hoarse, barely a whisper. "George, stop."

"He nearly killed you. He's been hurting you for months. He—"

"Stop." Fred crawled toward him, tears streaming down his face. "Please. I don't want you to become him."

The words hit George like a bucket of ice water. He looked down at his fist, raised and ready, and saw himself reflected in the hatred he held. He lowered his arm.

"You're right." His voice shook. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Fred collapsed against him, sobbing. George held him, felt the trembling of his body, the weakness in his limbs.

"It's okay," George whispered, even though it wasn't. "I've got you. I've got you."

---

In the aftermath, the Weasleys descended like an avenging army.

Molly came with curses that turned the air blue. Arthur came with Ministry forms and Auror contacts. Bill came with a scarred face and a quiet fury that promised more violence if the legal system failed. Charlie came with stories of dragons who protected their own. Ron came with Hermione, and together they built a case that even the most corrupt Ministry official couldn't ignore.

And Fred—slowly, painfully—came back to himself.

There were good days and bad days. Days when he laughed at George's jokes and days when he couldn't get out of bed. Days when he flinched at loud noises and days when he played Exploding Snap with the family like nothing had ever happened.

The trial was brutal. Fred testified, his voice shaking, but he didn't break. Told them everything—the drugs, the manipulation, the violence, the years of being told he was worthless, that no one else would ever want him.

When it was over, Marcus went to Azkaban. And Fred went home.

---

The last scene of this story takes place on a hill overlooking the Hogwarts grounds, a year after everything fell apart.

Fred sat in the grass, legs crossed, watching the sunset paint the castle in shades of gold and amber. He wore a simple sweater—navy blue, soft and warm—and his hair hung loose around his shoulders.

George sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched.

"I used to think I deserved it," Fred said quietly. "The pain. The fear. I thought if I just loved him enough, he'd change. I thought it was my job to fix him."

"It was never your job to fix him."

"I know that now." Fred leaned his head against George's shoulder. "I'm still learning to believe it."

"We've got time." George wrapped an arm around him. "We've got all the time in the world."

They sat together as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the grass. The castle lights flickered on, one by one, like stars coming to life.

"I used to think our bond was broken," Fred said. "When I was with him. I thought you'd never understand, never forgive me."

George turned, meeting his eyes. "I could never stop loving you, Fred. No matter what you did. No matter where you went. You're my brother. That doesn't break."

Fred's eyes welled with tears, but he was smiling. "I know that now. It took me a while, but I know."

They sat in silence for a long moment.

Then Fred said, "I'm going to be okay."

"I know."

"Really. Someday, I'm going to wake up and not feel the ghost of his hands on my neck. I'm going to look in the mirror and see myself, not what he made me."

"I know."

"And I'm going to find someone who loves me the way I deserve to be loved. Someone who doesn't need to break me to keep me."

George smiled, and it was the first true smile either of them had worn in a long time. "I know."

"Stop saying you know."

"Fine. I'm aware."

Fred laughed—a real laugh, rusty and surprised, like he'd forgotten he could make that sound. "I've missed this," he said.

"Me too." George pulled him closer. "Me too."

They stayed on that hill until the stars came out, bright and cold and beautiful. And when they finally walked back to the castle, they walked together, their footsteps in time, the twin bond humming between them like a promise kept.

Fred still had scars. Some visible, some not. Some that would fade with time, and some that would stay forever.

But he also had George. And that, he was learning, was enough to start rebuilding.

One day at a time.