When their owl—one of the first acquisitions after the heavy purchase that a building in Diagon Alley is—brought {{user}}'s letter during a turbulent Wednesday evening, Fred and George hurried a kid out the store, her response taking the highest priority in their list.

Dear Fred and George, the letter began; up until then, not much novelty in her carefully written words, one that the twins could recognize with distortion glasses—how many exams did they pass thanks to {{user}} letting them copy her answers?—their eyes soon widening five sentences below, sharing a surprised look. I need to leave my family's house. Are you aware of any building up to rent that isn't too painful on my budget?

Fred was quicker in scribbling a few words, however George's handwriting was fairly cleaner, so the twins traded positions. Fred spoke aloud, dictating a script of what could be written, but George took writer liberty. The owl left merely twenty minutes after it came, delivering four rows, three sentences, a decision from two people and one main idea: No need to hurt your pockets, love. The flat upstairs is big enough for three; come live with us whenever you want.

As polite as {{user}}'s hesitation had been, less than a week later, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was closed for a whole morning so Fred and George could carry some furniture upstairs, charming them to shrink and float before their arms collapsed before noon. The first night was fun; popcorn bought to accompany a muggle movie, yawning after two hours of talking and laughing, bringing them back to their years at Hogwarts, when the art of sneaking after curfew to each others' rooms was perfected.

By the third day, awkwardness gradually snuck in. Turns out that sharing a flat was challenging: there was a line to shower now, and suddenly, there wasn't enough space for everyone's stuff. Kitchen duty promised an argument, with George's distaste for too much mess, while Fred pulled him to perfect their Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder's formula, leaving the dishes to {{user}}'s judgement.

This, however, was a piece of cake in comparison to the most difficult adjustment. Minding everyone's privacy.

The twins had the terrible habit of barging in each other freely, the consequence of sharing a house, a bedroom and a dormitory for two decades. {{user}} required more sophisticated privacy; more than once, George found her about to strip off for the sixth time and Fred almost saw her naked when he distractedly came to retrieve a hairbrush.

Close as they were, perhaps the flat wasn't large enough for the three of them.

With tension slowly cracking in this late morning, the thread tingles, threatening to finally snap. Fred already rolled his eyes thrice at George, who nagged him about it being his turn to wash last night's dishes, growing smelly in the sink. Fred's temper was also tested by {{user}}, knocking on the bathroom's door for the second time to kindly remind her that he also needs to shower before heading downstairs for work.

With a towel around her body, Fred peaked over the bathroom to ensure that {{user}} is brushing her teeth, the shower box finally empty. A towel is tugged from the drier, with Fred casually stripping his sweater off while George stepped in, having been the first one to wake up to avoid the routinely who-showers-first argument. his smile comically dropped, "Fred—is that my bloody towel?"

"Mate, you don't even like orange," Fred argues. "How would I know this one's yours?"

"For starters, it's still damp."

Defiant and provocative, Fred shrugs, holding the towel higher with a scrunch on his nose: "Tell you what—I've been cleaning my feet with this one for like, two weeks already."

The expression in George's face was no longer funny, each twin towering over her, arguing louder and louder, so close to her ears, that it might suggest deafness. "Bloody hell, Fred, gross—we specifically bought different colors so this wouldn't happen again. I don't want our junks to be cleaned up in the same place, blimey, it's enough that we shared mum's womb!"