Flame Thrower (Blairon)

Gred and Feorge

"What's this about, dad?"

Arthur Weasley fidgeted in his seat, his heart racing. He was sitting in a diner not unlike his wife's. The setting sun was taking its time, so most customers hadn't come for their dinner yet. Sat before him in the booth they all shared were his two sons. The twins. Fred and George Weasley. They were both wearing the same fancy suit, though Fred's was purple and George had on red. Their watches were the same, their shoes were the same, but what bothered Arthur the most was that their expression was the same. Irritated and impatient.

"Well, spit it out!" They said simultaneously and Arthur gulped, putting his arms on the table. "I need you help." He repeated. Fred and George looked at each other before nodding for him to continue.
"You know who my boss is, correct?"
The twins nodded. Arthur spoke again.
"Well, Ron has-he's done something.... Terrible-"

At the mention of their favourite brother Fred and George immediately straightened up, both looking hysterical. "What do you mean?! Is he okay?!" They asked, finishing each other's sentences as they had been doing since learning to talk.
Their father gulped, wiping the sweat off his creased forehead. "He won't be unless you talk to him. See, you remember, five years ago when he met-"

"The Flame Thrower," Fred and George whispered, sharing looks of imminent worry. Ron had not been quite the same for a long time after an anonymous source gave the police information about the Flame Thrower's real identity and he was sent to rot in Azkaban. It was obvious Ron wasn't mentally okay, but covered it up with fake smiles and laughter, making a joke out of anything and everything. But you could see the pain and longing embedded into his irises of the ocean. A pain that neither Fred nor George had forgotten. They nodded. "Well, a few weeks ago, the Flame Thrower was officially declared a runaway inmate. Nobody has a clue as to how the hell he escaped Azkaban, but many at the Ministry suspect he had one, and only one motive," he said and Fred and George's eyes widened, and together they gasped, "Ron,"
Arthur nodded, wringing his hands on the table, tapping his foot on the ground, watching the twins connect the dots.
"The Flame Thrower found him. And now-"
Arthur choked on his words, his lips pursed tightly as the twins stared at him and then each other. "He's part of the Hell Fire Gang?"
"Isn't he?"
Mr Weasley nodded, running a hand through his thin, graying hair. "I've tried to talk to him but with our past, he refuses to speak with me. But he'll listen to you two. You're his favourite siblings! He was first to forgive you after the bombing in Connecticut. He trusts you. Please, sons. Just do this one thing, for me and your mother. And more importantly, your brother," he said, his voice sincere and tired. Fred and George looked at each other, already knowing what the other was thinking. "We'll see," they chimed, standing up before leaving the diner.
George looked over to his brother who was slightly slower than him, limping as they walked, and he sighed sadly. Fred tripped as they got to the car and George caught him just in time before he hit the ground. He held onto his twin tight, whispering soothing things into his ear. Fred had never really recovered from the bombing and talking about what happened that Christmas in Connecticut was painful for the both of them. Fred had lost his leg, which had been replaced with a prosthetic, but it was never the same. Limping everywhere he went, constantly relying on George more than he already did. It was hard. But he had his twin with him. Without George, he probably would've died and vice versa. But they loved each other too much to die. Especially during the bombing, where they were forced to stare death right in the eyes.