Author: Debbie
Rating: R for not-overly-explicit sexual theme
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I apologize to her for warping her creation.
Summary: George spends an evening with his mirror.
Author's Note/Warning: This story contains slash, specifically twincest -- if this sort of thing squicks you, leave now. I welcome genuine feedback, both positive and constructive, but if the only thing you have to say is "ewww", I will merely laugh at your stupidity for ignoring the warning. **self depricating laugh** -- I swore I would never write about this pairing, but I was just too intrigued by the concept.
Feedback: Yes please. I'm new at writing HP fic, so feedback means a lot to me.

I look into my mirror and see my image reflected back at me. Hair -- red, sticking up in the back just a little. Eyes -- blue, with tiny hazel flecks. Freckles on fair, pale skin. My face and neck have picked up a hint of a tan from frequent Quidditch games -- about as dark as the surface will ever get without burning.

I put my hand out to my image, fingers reaching to touch their mirror. I can see the front and the back of my hand at the same time. The palm is crisscrossed with lines -- Professor Trelawney claims she can use these creases to make some sort of definitive prediction about a person, but I have mercifully forgotten what she said about this particular set of genetic stripes. Fingers are average length, neither long nor stubby, and are marked by calluses -- signs of an active youth. A few additional freckles dot the back of my hand. I stretch my fingers out a little further, reaching until tips meet tips. I feel my life flowing through the connection forged with my reflection. It is always there -- whenever I feel alone, all I need to do is look at my mirror and I am complete.

But I'm in the mood for more than a light touch tonight. I need more, I need release. I need hands on skin, I need to see myself, vulnerable and ready and open and spent. I pull off my shirt; my mirror does the same. I study the image in front of me -- the chest is paler where the summer sun has been thwarted by T-shirts and robes. I've never been skinny -- unlike my lanky brothers Ron, Percy, and Bill -- but my reflected image shows a relatively fit torso. It's amazing how many calories you burn getting into mischief. Shoulders have broadened in the past few years, arms are sturdy and muscular, aided by the constant wielding of a Beater's club.

Down come my jeans, followed by boxers. My naked image gazes back at me. Eyes flick up and down, top to bottom. Hmmm…. When did those legs become so toned? All those years of running from Filch must have been good for something. I reach down absently and stroke the sleek surface of a thigh. But soon practiced fingers move in towards center and I close my eyes as the sensations wash over me. All I'm aware of is the pleasurable pressure on my shaft and my hand moving up and down along velvet-strong skin.

It's a secret pleasure, these stolen moments. Me and my reflection, alone but together, two people but one. Breath comes faster as me, myself, and I reach the final moment simultaneously.

My eyes open in the aftermath of release. I see my mirror looking back at me, inches away. Crooked half-smiles reflect the love that surfaces in the blue-hazel depths. Love? Absolutely. Narcissism? No way. This is love for my mirror, not myself, and I love him with all my heart. He is an extension of me, my other half, my own soul in a second body. We pull our hands away from each other's bodies -- I open my arms and my reflection falls into them. We hold each other tightly, completing our union, showing the strength of our bond.

The mirror and I.

Fred and George.


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