Chapter Text
Harry doesn’t think of himself as a violent person, really.
Sure, he’s had his fair shares of fights through the years, duels in class and outside, the odd fist fight. He’s hexed more Death Eaters than he knows to count, and probably a good deal of those resulted in, at the least, serious injury. A hastily shouted Sectumsempra thrown across the sixth floor boys’ lav that he doesn’t like to think about probably qualifies, for all that he hadn’t intended the results. And, you know, the premeditated murder of one semi-immortal, world-domination-seeking wanker may count as a violent act by definition, if one were being pedantic. But does it really count if it was in defence of the entirety of the Wizarding and Muggle worlds or, at least, those in and around the British Isles? His signature move is to disarm people, for Merlin’s sake!
So Harry doesn’t think he’s violent, per se, but that doesn’t mean he cannot commit violence.
It certainly doesn’t mean that he can’t contemplate violence on a drizzly, mind-numbingly ordinary Thursday in late January. Currently, the only thing keeping him from homicide and out of the hands of the Ministry’s holding cells is the vivid fantasy he’s indulging in of sending a double testicular torsion hex at the twin idiots standing in front of him.
Almost three years past the end of the War and Harry cherishes the mundane, the uneventful, the non-life threatening. So, choosing, of his own volition, to work at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes might seem like an odd choice on at least two of those counts. This is doubly true given that Harry never needs to work a day in his life if he doesn’t want to, thanks to the various inherited Gringotts vaults and some smart investing.
But there is such a thing as too mundane. Or, at least, that’s what he found out when he was dragged forcibly by the ankles out of his bed-cum-depression nest in Grimmauld two and a half years ago by none other than Fred Weasley. George Weasley barging in with a tea tray not three minutes after, Harry still tangled in the duvet on the floor and cursing for all he was worth, was really just the icing on the cake.
The twins had annoyed, coaxed, and cajoled Harry until he had agreed to exit his bedroom for longer than five minutes at a time, insisting that a shower was different than a quick Scourgify once every three days or so. Then, they had harangued him until he graced the sitting room of Grimmauld for the first time since he’d tumbled through the Floo and promptly locked down the wards, three weeks after the Battle and the night of Remus’ and Tonks’ joint funeral.
Harry still doesn’t know how they bypassed the wards, and the twins certainly aren't telling. His bet was that it involved bribing Kreacher, but he wasn’t sure with what.
Either way, they had been there nearly every day after that point, spending mornings clearing out the property at 93 Diagon Alley and evenings with Harry. In the desolate quiet, they had been obnoxiously loud, grating on Harry’s last nerve and exactly what he needed to chase some of the gloom away. More surprisingly, they were adept at recognising when Harry needed the quiet, choosing then to huddle together and work through the myriad of paperwork involved with getting the shop back up and running.
The first time he stepped foot out of Grimmauld was only to Apparate directly into the dilapidated backroom of Wheezes with the twins after they unsubtly demanded he help them sort through inventory. That snowballed into what Fred and George called The Grand Resocialising of Harry Potter™, capital letters included, which then culminated in his current employment.
That is all to say: the twins have done so much for him, are truly some of his closest friends, so it would be a shame if they died at Harry’s hands.
“You see, Harry, it’s really quite ingenious,” George says in his sales pitch voice.
“We’ve charmed it to react to the individual in contact with it.”
“It chooses the correct sequence of responses based on their… preferences.”
“We’ve compiled over a thousand unique dialogue options!” Fred explains with a self-satisfied grin that Harry wants to jinx off.
“Which really wasn’t that easy, keeping it in character.”
“So there’s an option for everyone.”
“We think it’s going to be one of our best sellers yet,” Fred and George crow in unison. They’re both wearing wide grins, and George is holding what looks like a compact mirror in front of him, flipped open.
Except it’s not a mirror. It could be his reflection, but the image of Harry in the little circle is smiling lasciviously, little love hearts floating around his head as the image waves its fingers in greeting. It’s certainly not glowering with ill intent like the real Harry is.
“Let me get this straight,” Harry grits out in his most even tone. “Your latest and greatest is a miniature version of my face spelled to interact with the person holding it in whatever manner of their choosing?”
“Well, not quite. Although they are robust, the dialogue options are still finite,” says Fred, looking thoughtful. George glances down and around to the little fake-Harry in his hands, who has the audacity to wink up at him. George looks back at Harry, grin lopsided and nose slightly scrunched up, and says, “We did add more flirty options than anything else. We thought that was more in line with what the people would want than, say, you reciting Herbology facts.”
“Although, Neville was weirdly insistent that a few of those got in there anyway,” Fred shrugs. Harry is too busy trying to stop his eye from actively twitching to wonder if he knows any Herbology facts off the top of his head anymore.
“And how many people have you crowdsourced lines from in an effort to sell a weird dating simulation of me?” Harry asks, tone still absolutely neutral.
George has the good grace to look a little sheepish, even if Fred appears to have no such qualms and answers with, “Well, we asked our siblings and most of our friends. Luna was with Ginny when we asked, and Luna must have mentioned something to Pansy when she saw her next. Either way, we got some very spirited suggestions from Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, of all people.”
“We had to water down a couple of those, although they didn’t hold a candle to some of Charlie’s suggestions,” George says, fanning himself with his free hand. “We do have to keep the options non-pornographic if they’re going to be available to the general public.”
Fred lights up, turning slightly to George and unwisely taking his attention from Harry’s twitching wand hand. “We should write that down, an explicit version would make a mint. Although, we’d probably have to open up a new section of the store.”
“Or make it post-order only,” George suggests, earning an eager nod of agreement from his brother.
Harry has officially lost his patience. “So you two are, what, planning to whore out my image to every preteen witch in the country?”
“Witches and wizards and anyone in between, you know your cute little face attracts all sorts,” Fred beams, like the idea that more people want to buy a weird Harry-date-mirror is the best thing he can think of. “And that’s the other thing! Not everyone likes blokes, so we’ve charmed it to slightly alter your appearance for those who don’t lean that way.”
Fred holds his hand out for the little device and concentrates for a moment after George passes it over. The fake-Harry shimmers a bit, and Harry blinks a few times after the image refocuses.
It doesn’t look completely different, so the charm work must be extensive for the changes to be so subtle as to not disguise who the image is intended to represent. The not-Harry now smiling up at Fred has a slightly fuller face, plumper lips, thinner eyebrows. Its hair is still tousled and wild, but curls around its jaw and behind its ears in soft wave patterns. Harry just knows if it were to talk that it would match his cadence but in a breathy alto. The glasses and eyes and scar remain the same. So does the sultry smirk. It bats its eyes at Fred, who drags his gaze away to the real-Harry, who is hanging on to the edge of his sanity while viewing the girl-version of him primp its hair in the little mirror.
“As I said, equal opportunity for those who want all the you of it in the package of the fairer sex. We call it the Personal Pocket Potter.”
At least George seems to have started to understand Harry’s current mood, as he takes a slight shuffling step back from where Harry is standing up from the backroom workbench where they fill owl orders. Fred is oblivious, back to staring at the little image in his hand with undisguised delight as it reverts to the masculine version of not-Harry.
“Look, Harry, we–” George starts, eyes widening and smile faltering a little as Harry feels the twitch in his eyelid start in earnest. “Fred and I had the idea, it started as a bit of a lark, but it really is quite cool! We’re thinking of expanding the line eventually, maybe a who’s who of Hogwarts alums and professors.”
“Yeah, we were even thinking of asking Shacklebolt and a few of the others to get in on it, we just know that would be a hit. Though, I imagine King would have something to say about the dialogue– can’t have the Minister of Magic’s image spouting off tawdry innuendos for all and company.” Fred looks a little dreamy at the thought, which Harry resolves himself not to examine while in his righteous fit of rage.
“Oi, and it's alright that my face is doing it?!” shouts Harry, praying that Verity and any stragglers in the store can’t hear him through the door separating them from the rest of the floor. “Think I wouldn’t have had a few opinions on that kind of thing before tarting up my persona and selling me off for a couple Galleons a pop?”
George reaches for the compact over his brother’s shoulder, snapping it closed. Fred has finally begun to understand that something is amiss, although his confusion is just making Harry angrier. “Mate, I think these are well worth more than a couple Galleons. The spellwork alone–” he snaps his mouth shut as Harry takes a menacing step forward.
“How exactly is this better,” Harry asks through gritted teeth, “than seeing my face splashed all across the Prophet with some sordid new interview I never actually gave tucked in the society column?”
George blanches over Fred’s shoulder and grips his brother’s bicep before Fred can open his mouth again. “Harry, we really don’t mean anything by it. We were brainstorming Valentine’s ideas now that we’ve reconfigured the Love Potion line and it seemed like a bit of fun.” George is still holding on to Fred’s arm over his robes, the deep grape material bunched up under his fingers. “We're really planning on getting others set up, yours was just the first we did because–” George cuts himself off abruptly, and Harry is almost sure that Fred just stepped back onto his twin’s toes.
“Because we spend so much time with you and you’re usually a sport about most of the pranks. We almost started with ones for each of us, but that seemed a bit narcissistic, honestly.” Fred’s face pulls off earnestness less well than George’s, always has, but Harry can tell he means what he’s saying.
Harry is almost more mad to feel himself deflate, shoulders sagging a little from where they’d been pressed up tense near his ears. He’s never really been able to stay angry with the twins, even back at Hogwarts, and that’s only become more true with time.
The fact that they take shameless advantage of this is not lost on Harry, but there’s nothing he can do about it.
“Your face is on the front of the building and you're worried about narcissism now?” Harry grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses and closing his eyes momentarily against the headache that’s been brewing since his two friends barged into the room. He opens them again to see the tail end of a look pass between them, something being said in the twitch of an eyebrow and blinking of eyelashes. George releases his hold on Fred before shuffling around to step closer to Harry. He lays the hand that was on his brother on Harry’s shoulder, large palm covering the juncture where his neck slopes into collarbone, and squeezes gently.
“We didn’t think about it like that, like it was publicity. We should have, though.” George starts, and Harry suppresses a shiver as his thumb rubs once over the skin not covered by the neckline of his t-shirt. If either of the twins ever got wind of how much power they hold over Harry with such a simple touch, he’d never get a moment’s peace again.
“Georgie’s right, we weren’t thinking about it like that. We could–”
“–let you go over all the dialogue options and veto at will. Or we could–”
“–scrap the idea for now, until we can make the prototype with someone else?” Both twins are looking at him, a little concerned, a little hopeful, and a little disappointed. All of a sudden, Harry feels bad for having maligned what might be one of their more innovative projects from the past year.
He sighs and says, “I’m not letting you waste all that work less than three weeks from Valentine’s.” He gives them both a wan smile. “But I’ll take you up on the veto option. I can’t imagine what Ginny sneaked in there. Will I have time to do that before you want to get them displayed?”
George gives him such a cautiously pleased smile that Harry feels the rest of his irritation vanish, leaving behind only a sense of unease. George squeezes his shoulder again once, twice, before pulling off and turning back to his twin.
“We were planning to debut them on the 5th, so over this weekend would be best. We can help you out, then all we’ll need to do is batch-revise the charm work for any changes and pack them up for display.” Fred is giving him an equally lovely grin, flipping the little compact over his knuckles as he talks, before slipping it into his front trouser pocket between the folds of his robes.
“Sounds like a plan,” Harry concedes, warring between dread at seeing all the lines they’ve cooked up and simple happiness at having plans to hang out with them. Merlin, he’s pathetic– it’s not as if they don’t see each other most weekdays and almost every weekend already. “But you’re buying the takeaway and I get to pick what we watch after. You owe me.”
They laugh at the same time, sounding more than a little relieved, as he mock-glares at them. Fred smiles and George gives him a quick “‘Course, anything you’d like,” as they both start making their way back to the door that leads to the shop.
“One more thing,” Harry says as Fred reaches for the doorknob. Two pairs of warm brown eyes turn to look at him. “It is bloody impressive work, even if I don’t much like being the subject. It almost reminds me of characters in Muggle video games.”
The smiles that follow are blinding and Harry feels his heart thump irregularly as he’s caught in the glare. Fred cocks his head to the side and asks, “What are ‘vidgames’?”
Harry suppresses a laugh and explains, “It’s ‘video games.’ They’re like the shows we watch on the telly, except interactive. You can make the characters move and talk to you and do different things depending on the game. Seamus would probably be able to explain it better, I know Dean’s gotten him into it over the past few years.”
The twins both look deeply intrigued, so Harry makes a mental note to see if he can’t get his hands on a PlayStation or Nintendo 64. Honestly, one of those Tamagotchis would probably be the best-fitting example, although he doesn’t know if one would work consistently in Diagon without some tweaking. The twins acquired a magically-powered television for their flat above the shop, insisted on it after watching infomercials on Harry’s own modified set at Grimmauld in the interim period before Harry was brave enough to face the world again. They only really use it when Harry comes over for a movie night, forcing them into something of a Muggle movie education, but he can see both men getting invested in some of the games Dean has shown him.
“That sounds brilliant, actually,” George says, slapping his brother's shoulder with enthusiasm. Softly, he follows it up with, “Thanks, mate.” Fred pushes through the door and the two slip back onto the shop floor, finally leaving Harry alone with his thoughts and a backlog of owl orders.
-
It’s not like Harry is stupid, no matter what Snape used to imply. He’s rash and reckless, but not oblivious.
Well, not most of the time.
But he knows how bad his little crush has become. It’s gone from latent admiration for Ron’s pair of older brothers, to comradery and schoolboy friendship, to a harrowing couple of years where his puberty-ridden body had made it very clear that he didn’t think of the twins in a familial fashion. That evolved into respect, affection, and deep friendship as the War came and went and the twins dragged him kicking and screaming back to a semi-normal life.
Now, he can admit to himself without obfuscation that he’s arse over tits for the pair and likely has been since Potterwatch, at the latest.
And that’s really the rub of it. Harry thinks he’d be able to handle it if he only had the hots for one of them.
He’s been able to tell the twins apart almost since the beginning, one of few who can do it with almost complete accuracy. For all that they’re alike, the men differ in ways that have become very important to Harry. George mellows Fred out, and Fred encourages George’s wild side in turn. George prefers chocolate over anything else, but Fred has a bit of a fixation on fruity sweets. George is quieter and more casual in his physical affection; Fred chatters away at people nearly incessantly and illustrates his points with sweeping movements and dramatics when he’s feeling comfortable.
Harry feels privileged to know all of this and more, which is why he can sometimes talk himself out of feeling like the worst kind of pervert for having fallen for identical twins.
He likes them both, individually and as a pair; he admires their differences, how they complement and contrast each other. And, truthfully, he can’t really imagine one without the other. He shies away from the thought as it evokes memories of Fred limp and under heavy-duty stasis charms in the middle of the Great Hall, with George using one hand to clutch his brother and the other to shakily grip his wand while repeating a mantra of every healing spell he knew.
But it would be easier if Harry only liked one of them. It would feel less insurmountable, less impossible to hope for the returned affections of one person rather than two. And not just two people, two brothers. Harry has had plenty of time to feel bad about that particular aspect of it. He doesn’t need anyone else to tell him that the twins would likely be appalled at some of the ideas he’s had during the witching hour between two and three in the morning when he can’t sleep, when he sticks his hand past the band of his pyjamas and lets himself want.
He doesn’t like just one of the twins, though. He’s completely gone for them both and he doesn’t think he could ever reconcile being with just one of them, even if that were on offer. It would feel too much like all of those times he’d seen others content to mix them up, as if they were interchangeable; it would feel like looking at one of them and only seeing the absence of the other.
Harry groans into his hands as he rubs them over his eyes, elbows on the miniscule amount of empty space on the workshop table, and pushes his glasses to the top of his head.
He stares blurrily at the stack of order requests and resolves to leave the shop on time today, no matter how much work he leaves for himself to do tomorrow. He’ll need the distraction so he doesn’t spiral over the thought of once again sitting close on the sagging sofa in Fred and George’s living room like they do nearly every week.
Except, this time, he’ll be reviewing and approving cheesy pickup lines in between bites of takeaway.
Splendid.
-
He’s on the second-to-last of the order backlog the next day when Fred bangs in through the backroom door, boxes stacked precariously in his arms and more trailing in behind him. Harry narrowly avoids sending his ink well to the floor as he jumps at the sudden influx of noise.
“Well, hello there, I thought you were already done in here,” Fred greets him, grunting as he wedges his stack of boxes onto an already-full shelf. The floating remainder hangs in mid-air as he squints at their messy storage, trying to find room for more where there isn’t any. Harry levers himself up from his stool, shuffling overflow boxes of trick wands and loose components for the Skiving Snackboxes around until there’s room for Fred to shove the rest of the boxes in a haphazard pile.
“Thanks a mil,” Fred smiles as he turns back around. “Almost done, then? You know what they say about all work and no play.” Fred’s smile turns sharper as Harry scoffs while pivoting back to the workbench.
“Didn’t know I was getting up to much fun after this, given I’m going to face whatever you and our horrible friends think counts as acceptable flirting material.” Harry scribbles on the order form, sliding over three of the newly improved WonderWitch Love Potions and an ordinary box of flavoured marshmallows in the shape of Pygmy Puffs to pack and shrink.
“You wound me, Harry, my dear.” He can see Fred pretending to stagger and clutch at his chest from the corner of his eye. “We here at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes can make even the most boring occasion fun and this shall be no different,” Fred intones solemnly, ignoring Harry rolling his eyes. “Plus, there’s a fair share of innuendo, puns, and basic dialogue options to even everything out. Variety is the spice of life.”
“You’re really not selling it,” Harry says, moving on to the last order at a snail’s pace. The sooner he’s done here, the sooner he begins the sweet torture that is the undivided attention of and close proximity with both of the twins.
He tenses up painfully in surprise as steady hands alight on his shoulders. They pause for a second until Harry involuntarily relaxes into the familiar grip, and then the thumbs on either side of his neck start kneading the tension Harry didn’t even know he was carrying until this moment.
His head drops forward against his will and he barely manages to stifle a groan as Fred digs into the muscles along his shoulders. His hand is limp around the quill he was using, and it’s taking everything in him not to slump back into the heat of Fred’s legs and torso behind him.
“Merlin, Harry, do you have granite for muscles or something?” Fred’s fingers glide up the tendons on the sides of his neck, pressing into any resistance they come across, and Harry can’t quite keep the little noise that bubbles up in.
“Mmuh-uh,” is his eloquent response, which seems to amuse Fred if the snorted puff of air against the crown of his head is anything to go by. The impromptu massage feels wonderfully rejuvenating, like drinking cold water on a hot summer day as the blood pools and his muscles release under Fred’s calloused fingers.
Harry’s eyes fly open because the thought of rushing blood and Fred’s skilled hands converge in his mind, bringing his attention to the fact he is rapidly becoming hard under the table in front of him.
He squirms a little, realising he needs to get Fred to stop fucking touching him as soon as possible before he makes their evening very awkward. Fred must take his shifting as encouragement, because he digs the heel of his palm into the meat between Harry’s spine and shoulder blade, eliciting a whimper that Harry doesn’t catch in time.
The noise of the door slamming open for the second time in ten minutes has Harry and Fred springing apart, Harry knocking his knee hard on the underside of the table. It’s an effective relief to his erection as pain smarts through his knee cap. He turns just enough to see George grinning in a truly devious fashion towards his brother.
“Bit cliché, getting frisky in the supply room, isn’t it?” George says, eyebrows creeping up at whatever he sees on Fred’s face. Harry is already flushed from the massage and the feeling of Fred so close, but he’s intrigued to see Fred’s ears go from pink to bright red where he’s got his shoulder-length hair tucked behind them. George’s smirk antes up a notch, clearly enjoying his brother’s discomfort.
“Nobody’s getting frisky, thanks,” Harry recovers enough to shoot back. George shifts his attention to Harry and gives him a slightly less concerning smile.
“Our dear Harry has the shoulder tension of a stone gargoyle,” Fred informs his twin, seeming to recover himself from the shock of the loud noise. George looks Harry over, pursing his lips, and asks, “You’re not in pain, are you? That stool has never been the best for posture, maybe we can get a better chair in–”
“I’m fine, really,” Harry cuts George off, sitting up straighter. He turns to the side fully, now that he’s officially not at risk of displaying an untimely hard-on, and grabs the quill back up to finish the last invoice.
“If you say so,” George concedes, walking further into the room to sling an arm around Fred’s shoulder. “I was just coming to see if you two were ready to move up to the flat. I’m actually starving, I thought we could Floo-order from that new pub down the way.”
Harry blows on the parchment to dry the ink before shrinking the last package and throwing it in the outgoing post bin off to the side. As it settles into the container, Harry taps his wand against the side four times and the contents disappear with a pop! He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the everyday conveniences of magic, like having a direct-to-owlery post bin in the shop.
“That was the last, we’re finally all caught up on owl orders from New Years,” Harry says, turning to face the twins with a satisfied smile. George snorts and says, “Only took til near-February. I’d be complaining if it didn’t mean business was so good.”
“And just in time for Valentine’s orders. All the young love you can stomach,” Fred adds, clasping his hands and rapidly blinking his eyelashes up into George’s face. George uses his free hand to push his brother’s face away, starting a minor scuffle that threatens to overturn boxes containing inventory that Harry would rather not have to clean up.
“Alright, alright, that’s enough of that. Talk about getting frisky in the backroom,” Harry says over the shuffle of feet without thinking.
The twins freeze, Fred still in half a headlock with hands twisted in the front of George’s robes. Their eyes lock on Harry, then slide to each other. Harry has less than a second to kick himself for making a sex innuendo to two brothers, dear Godric what was he thinking–
And then the momentary pause is over, Fred socking George lightly in the stomach as if they never stopped at all. George releases his brother to double over, and Harry takes the opportunity to school his face before gesturing grandly to the door.
The twins pass through the door ahead of him, the three of them make their way up the staircase to the upper level and through the curtain that leads upstairs to the second floor flat. Harry is glad to be bringing up the rear for many reasons, not limited to the sway of George’s hips through his robes that are a mere wand’s length away from his face. That, and the chance to flit through the full emotional spectrum at having made a sex joke about the twins prior to a whole evening together greenlighting various come-ons for their new product line.