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Description
The sun had been well into the sky for hours now, but still George couldn't bring himself to get up. Closed shutters and shut doors brought a comforting darkness to the room that he could hide in. And if everything was black, he wouldn't be able to see anything. Not the empty bed sitting feet from him, not the jets of light shooting by as he ducked and dodged death itself, not the empty, staring eyes of his twin and closest friend.

Except he did see them. In the week that had passed since Fred's death, George hadn't be able to stop reliving that moment over and over again. He hadn't actually seen his brother die, but that was hardly any comfort. It didn't stop him from feeling as though his heart had been ripped out of his chest the moment he saw Fred lying with the rest of the dead, with empty eyes that had once been so full of laughter . . .

George suddenly realized that he was shaking violently, and brought his hand to his forehead to try and steady himself. It was no use. He could still feel it, could still see it. The image was burned into his memory as permanently as words were etched into a gravestone. Oh god, the funeral . . .

There had been a public ceremony to honor those who had given their lives to that terrible battle, the crowds were enormous, and even witches and wizards who weren't present mourned the dead from all over the world. They even made it a holiday, an official memorial day to honor those who had given so much to the fight.

The Weasley family had had their own, separate funeral. It was a quiet affair, family members only, and Harry and Hermione of course. Each person said a small piece about how much Fred had meant to him, how he affected their lives. Ginny talked about how Fred had always inspired her to be her own person, even if it meant breaking a few rules. Percy admitted that he'd always been secretly jealous of Fred's ability to have fun and joke around no matter what the circumstances. Mrs. Weasley said that she had always loved and supported Fred, even though she had been so strict with him sometimes. When it was time for George to speak, he said simply:

"Fred was a lot of things. A brother, a son, a jokester, and a brave man. He was my other half, and I will miss him."

He stayed just long enough to watch them lower the coffin into the ground, then he retreated into his room, and didn't come out for three days. His mum left meals outside the door, though he rarely ate anything. And although he stayed holed up for so long, no one once came to ask him to come out, or to beg him to join the rest of the family for mealtimes. Perhaps they all thought it would be easier if none of them had to see his face, which looked exactly like his dead brother, down to the last freckle.

George lay completely still on his bed, staring up into black. He heard the sound of his mother's footsteps as she came up to leave his tray by the door. Probably lunch, unless it was suppertime already. George didn't move, but waited for her to walk back downstairs.

"Georgie?"

He started. It was the first time he'd heard his mother's voice since the funeral.

"Georgie, please come down. We're all very worried about you, you've been locked in your room for so long. Please . . ."

But apparently she didn't know what else to say, for a few moments later George heard her footsteps fade away down the stairs, and then they were gone. He didn't move, but hearing his mother's voice had changed something in him. He missed seeing them all, interacting with people, talking to others. And he didn't want to be alone anymore.

Slowly, George sat up, a few of his stiffer bones cracking as he did so. He hovered at the edge for a moment, and then pushed himself off his bed and to the door. He ignored the tray of assorted foods, instead proceeding straight down the stairs to the kitchen. The brightness of the house stung his eyes which had been in the darkness for so long, so when he stumbled into the kitchen he missed the momentary look of stunned disbelief and joy on everyone's faces when they saw him. He did see the disappointed stares and lowered heads, quickly followed by forced smiles, and was just thinking that maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to come down after all when his mother stepped forward.

"George, oh thank heavens you've finally come down. Have something to eat, dear, you look terribly thin."

Soundlessly, George made his way over to the giant table where everyone sat. He took his usual spot, and before he could stop himself stared blankly at the empty chair on his left.

"So, George!" Percy said, a bit too enthusiastically. "Fancy anything in particular? Sandwich? Apple? Crisps? You must be ravenous. Try some of this pudding it's quite good--"

"Perce," Charlie said, laying a hand on his shoulder, "I think he's got it."

Sure enough, suddenly very hungry, George began piling his plate with a little bit of everything. A fork of vegetables was halfway to his mouth when he paused, looking around at everyone, who was watching him eat.

"What am I, a museum exhibit?" he said. "Because if so then I think I ought to at least get a cut of the profits."

Everyone broke out into smiles, and Bill clapped George on the back. His mother went to the oven, supposedly to get more food out, and the rest of the family filled him in on what had happened in the last three days. Hermione had gone off to Australia to locate her parents, and Harry (at Mrs. Weasley's insistence) was now living at the Burrow. The Lovegoods had stopped by the day before, and Mr. Lovegood had made a formal apology to Harry and Ron for his actions. Harry and Ron had forgiven him, understanding the lengths a father will go to to protect his daughter. Other than that, the Weasleys had been completely undisturbed, although Mr. Weasley said he was expecting a visit from Kingsley Shacklebolt tomorrow. Everyone was thrilled that George was out and about again, and for the first time in a long time they felt as though a weight had been lifted from their chests. Ron was just telling everyone about the trio's escape from Gringotts on top of a dragon when Mrs. Weasley approached the tabling, carrying a huge plate heaped with roast beef and potatoes.

"I've got your favorite dish right here, Fred--"

The plate crashed to the ground, food flying everywhere. Mrs. Weasley clapped her hands to her mouth, looking absolutely mortified. The rest sat frozen in place, every eye upon George.

George didn't move. He stared at his plate, and the smile that had found its way to his face was gone, wiped away as quickly as it had come. His mother spoke, trembling between shaking hands.

"Oh, God. George, I--"

George pushed up from the table and before he knew what he was doing he was out the door and standing in the garden, the dampness of the ground seeping into his socks. He could hear his father calling him back into the house, and knew they were all sorry, it had been an accident, so much had been on everyone's minds lately . . .

He stepped forward and Disapparated.

The shop was just as they had left it. George fished in his pocket for his wand and, with a few muttered spells, unlocked the door. Stepping inside, he flicked his wand and at once a bright light shot from his wand and hovered near the ceiling, illuminating the room. Merchandise lay neatly stored on their shelves, although some of the more mobile items had long since wandered off. When he and Fred had decided to close shop and operate through owl service, they'd made sure to lock up the shop nice and tight, with a few hidden traps to dissuade any Death Eaters or competitors from snooping around. Therefore, when George made his way to the back of the shop, he was careful to avoid walking on certain floorboards, and stayed as far away from the shelves as possible. There were some things he just didn't feel like dealing with right now.

Soon he was in their old apartment above the shop. Without mum to clean up after them, they'd really let the room get out of hand. That was alright though, he and Fred had always found complete and utter chaos to be a suitable working environment. An old mirror hung on the wall between the two beds, and in it George could see his own face staring back at him. Their face.

He felt numb. It wasn't fair. Everyone else would be able to move on, someday in the future, but he would never be able to, because everywhere he went people would look at him and see Fred. And he would look at himself and see his brother again and again and again.

"Damn-it!" he swore, slamming his fist against the glass, which cracked under the pressure. "Why, Fred? Why did you have to die? You shouldn't have let your guard down! I should have been there! I should have been there . . ."

And now the tears he'd been holding back flowed freely down his face, his chest seizing painfully as he sobbed alone in their old apartment.

CRASH!

"Bloody Hell!"

Or maybe not entirely alone.

George straightened up, wand in hand. Then he remembered that the war was over, and put it away, but still proceeded with caution down the stairs and back into the shop. From the sound of it, someone had tripped one of their traps, yet the voice spewing forth the unending stream of foul curses was decidedly familiar.

George stepped onto the main landing to see Lee Jordan hanging upside down from the ceiling, dangling from a rope wrapped around his left ankle. He must have lost his wand, for he made no magical attempt to sever the rope, settling instead for swinging back and forth in midair as he swore to himself with a mouth that would have mortified Mrs. Black.

"Lee?" George asked, craning his neck up to look at his friend.

"George?" Lee said, twisting around to get a better look. "So you are back. I wasn't completely sure."

"What are you doing?" George asked, putting a hand to his head. Lee scowled at him.

"I'm practicing my trapeze act for the circus, you dolt. I was walking through Diagon Alley when I saw a light on in the store, and I thought that maybe you'd come in to check on the wares or something. So I tried the door, found it unlocked, and the next thing I know I'm hanging upside-down staring at your sorry face. What are you doing here anyway? I thought you'd be with your family."

George looked down.

"I needed to get away from them for a bit. I needed to be . . . somewhere else . . ." he trailed off. Lee looked as though he wanted to say something, but at the look on George face he thought better of it. The two stood (or in Lee's case, swung) in silence for a minute. Then Lee spoke up.

"How're you, you know, holding up?" George shrugged.

"I spent the last three days holed up in my room, and when I finally came out I realized that no matter what people were always going to look at me and see Fred. And there wasn't anything I could do to change that."

There was another moment of silence.

"You know what my first thought was, when I heard about Fred?"

George shook his head.

"Is George alright?"

George looked up, and Lee nodded as best he could manage.

"When I heard the news, I was completed stunned. I think I may have been in shock. And as I ran to the Great Hall, I kept praying to myself that you weren't dead too. I thought you two would've been fighting together you see, you were so rarely apart, I didn't think battle was an exception. So when I saw you with your family in the Great Hall, I felt so relieved. All I could think was thank God we didn't lose you too."

"Really?" George asked.

"Really," Lee said. "And I'll bet you anything that's what your family thought too."

George gave a weak half-grin, although he felt better now than he had for awhile.

"Thanks, mate."

"You're welcome," Lee said. "Now, if it's not too much trouble, could you please get me down from here before all the blood rushes to my head and people mistake me for a Weasley? I'm way too good-looking to be associated with you lot."

And George, for the first time in a week, laughed.

It felt good.

Description
The sun had been well into the sky for hours now, but still George couldn't bring himself to get up. Closed shutters and shut doors brought a comforting darkness to the room that he could hide in. And if everything was black, he wouldn't be able to see anything. Not the empty bed sitting feet from him, not the jets of light shooting by as he ducked and dodged death itself, not the empty, staring eyes of his twin and closest friend.

Except he did see them. In the week that had passed since Fred's death, George hadn't be able to stop reliving that moment over and over again. He hadn't actually seen his brother die, but that was hardly any comfort. It didn't stop him from feeling as though his heart had been ripped out of his chest the moment he saw Fred lying with the rest of the dead, with empty eyes that had once been so full of laughter . . .

George suddenly realized that he was shaking violently, and brought his hand to his forehead to try and steady himself. It was no use. He could still feel it, could still see it. The image was burned into his memory as permanently as words were etched into a gravestone. Oh god, the funeral . . .

There had been a public ceremony to honor those who had given their lives to that terrible battle, the crowds were enormous, and even witches and wizards who weren't present mourned the dead from all over the world. They even made it a holiday, an official memorial day to honor those who had given so much to the fight.

The Weasley family had had their own, separate funeral. It was a quiet affair, family members only, and Harry and Hermione of course. Each person said a small piece about how much Fred had meant to him, how he affected their lives. Ginny talked about how Fred had always inspired her to be her own person, even if it meant breaking a few rules. Percy admitted that he'd always been secretly jealous of Fred's ability to have fun and joke around no matter what the circumstances. Mrs. Weasley said that she had always loved and supported Fred, even though she had been so strict with him sometimes. When it was time for George to speak, he said simply:

"Fred was a lot of things. A brother, a son, a jokester, and a brave man. He was my other half, and I will miss him."

He stayed just long enough to watch them lower the coffin into the ground, then he retreated into his room, and didn't come out for three days. His mum left meals outside the door, though he rarely ate anything. And although he stayed holed up for so long, no one once came to ask him to come out, or to beg him to join the rest of the family for mealtimes. Perhaps they all thought it would be easier if none of them had to see his face, which looked exactly like his dead brother, down to the last freckle.

George lay completely still on his bed, staring up into black. He heard the sound of his mother's footsteps as she came up to leave his tray by the door. Probably lunch, unless it was suppertime already. George didn't move, but waited for her to walk back downstairs.

"Georgie?"

He started. It was the first time he'd heard his mother's voice since the funeral.

"Georgie, please come down. We're all very worried about you, you've been locked in your room for so long. Please . . ."

But apparently she didn't know what else to say, for a few moments later George heard her footsteps fade away down the stairs, and then they were gone. He didn't move, but hearing his mother's voice had changed something in him. He missed seeing them all, interacting with people, talking to others. And he didn't want to be alone anymore.

Slowly, George sat up, a few of his stiffer bones cracking as he did so. He hovered at the edge for a moment, and then pushed himself off his bed and to the door. He ignored the tray of assorted foods, instead proceeding straight down the stairs to the kitchen. The brightness of the house stung his eyes which had been in the darkness for so long, so when he stumbled into the kitchen he missed the momentary look of stunned disbelief and joy on everyone's faces when they saw him. He did see the disappointed stares and lowered heads, quickly followed by forced smiles, and was just thinking that maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to come down after all when his mother stepped forward.

"George, oh thank heavens you've finally come down. Have something to eat, dear, you look terribly thin."

Soundlessly, George made his way over to the giant table where everyone sat. He took his usual spot, and before he could stop himself stared blankly at the empty chair on his left.

"So, George!" Percy said, a bit too enthusiastically. "Fancy anything in particular? Sandwich? Apple? Crisps? You must be ravenous. Try some of this pudding it's quite good--"

"Perce," Charlie said, laying a hand on his shoulder, "I think he's got it."

Sure enough, suddenly very hungry, George began piling his plate with a little bit of everything. A fork of vegetables was halfway to his mouth when he paused, looking around at everyone, who was watching him eat.

"What am I, a museum exhibit?" he said. "Because if so then I think I ought to at least get a cut of the profits."

Everyone broke out into smiles, and Bill clapped George on the back. His mother went to the oven, supposedly to get more food out, and the rest of the family filled him in on what had happened in the last three days. Hermione had gone off to Australia to locate her parents, and Harry (at Mrs. Weasley's insistence) was now living at the Burrow. The Lovegoods had stopped by the day before, and Mr. Lovegood had made a formal apology to Harry and Ron for his actions. Harry and Ron had forgiven him, understanding the lengths a father will go to to protect his daughter. Other than that, the Weasleys had been completely undisturbed, although Mr. Weasley said he was expecting a visit from Kingsley Shacklebolt tomorrow. Everyone was thrilled that George was out and about again, and for the first time in a long time they felt as though a weight had been lifted from their chests. Ron was just telling everyone about the trio's escape from Gringotts on top of a dragon when Mrs. Weasley approached the tabling, carrying a huge plate heaped with roast beef and potatoes.

"I've got your favorite dish right here, Fred--"

The plate crashed to the ground, food flying everywhere. Mrs. Weasley clapped her hands to her mouth, looking absolutely mortified. The rest sat frozen in place, every eye upon George.

George didn't move. He stared at his plate, and the smile that had found its way to his face was gone, wiped away as quickly as it had come. His mother spoke, trembling between shaking hands.

"Oh, God. George, I--"

George pushed up from the table and before he knew what he was doing he was out the door and standing in the garden, the dampness of the ground seeping into his socks. He could hear his father calling him back into the house, and knew they were all sorry, it had been an accident, so much had been on everyone's minds lately . . .

He stepped forward and Disapparated.

The shop was just as they had left it. George fished in his pocket for his wand and, with a few muttered spells, unlocked the door. Stepping inside, he flicked his wand and at once a bright light shot from his wand and hovered near the ceiling, illuminating the room. Merchandise lay neatly stored on their shelves, although some of the more mobile items had long since wandered off. When he and Fred had decided to close shop and operate through owl service, they'd made sure to lock up the shop nice and tight, with a few hidden traps to dissuade any Death Eaters or competitors from snooping around. Therefore, when George made his way to the back of the shop, he was careful to avoid walking on certain floorboards, and stayed as far away from the shelves as possible. There were some things he just didn't feel like dealing with right now.

Soon he was in their old apartment above the shop. Without mum to clean up after them, they'd really let the room get out of hand. That was alright though, he and Fred had always found complete and utter chaos to be a suitable working environment. An old mirror hung on the wall between the two beds, and in it George could see his own face staring back at him. Their face.

He felt numb. It wasn't fair. Everyone else would be able to move on, someday in the future, but he would never be able to, because everywhere he went people would look at him and see Fred. And he would look at himself and see his brother again and again and again.

"Damn-it!" he swore, slamming his fist against the glass, which cracked under the pressure. "Why, Fred? Why did you have to die? You shouldn't have let your guard down! I should have been there! I should have been there . . ."

And now the tears he'd been holding back flowed freely down his face, his chest seizing painfully as he sobbed alone in their old apartment.

CRASH!

"Bloody Hell!"

Or maybe not entirely alone.

George straightened up, wand in hand. Then he remembered that the war was over, and put it away, but still proceeded with caution down the stairs and back into the shop. From the sound of it, someone had tripped one of their traps, yet the voice spewing forth the unending stream of foul curses was decidedly familiar.

George stepped onto the main landing to see Lee Jordan hanging upside down from the ceiling, dangling from a rope wrapped around his left ankle. He must have lost his wand, for he made no magical attempt to sever the rope, settling instead for swinging back and forth in midair as he swore to himself with a mouth that would have mortified Mrs. Black.

"Lee?" George asked, craning his neck up to look at his friend.

"George?" Lee said, twisting around to get a better look. "So you are back. I wasn't completely sure."

"What are you doing?" George asked, putting a hand to his head. Lee scowled at him.

"I'm practicing my trapeze act for the circus, you dolt. I was walking through Diagon Alley when I saw a light on in the store, and I thought that maybe you'd come in to check on the wares or something. So I tried the door, found it unlocked, and the next thing I know I'm hanging upside-down staring at your sorry face. What are you doing here anyway? I thought you'd be with your family."

George looked down.

"I needed to get away from them for a bit. I needed to be . . . somewhere else . . ." he trailed off. Lee looked as though he wanted to say something, but at the look on George face he thought better of it. The two stood (or in Lee's case, swung) in silence for a minute. Then Lee spoke up.

"How're you, you know, holding up?" George shrugged.

"I spent the last three days holed up in my room, and when I finally came out I realized that no matter what people were always going to look at me and see Fred. And there wasn't anything I could do to change that."

There was another moment of silence.

"You know what my first thought was, when I heard about Fred?"

George shook his head.

"Is George alright?"

George looked up, and Lee nodded as best he could manage.

"When I heard the news, I was completed stunned. I think I may have been in shock. And as I ran to the Great Hall, I kept praying to myself that you weren't dead too. I thought you two would've been fighting together you see, you were so rarely apart, I didn't think battle was an exception. So when I saw you with your family in the Great Hall, I felt so relieved. All I could think was thank God we didn't lose you too."

"Really?" George asked.

"Really," Lee said. "And I'll bet you anything that's what your family thought too."

George gave a weak half-grin, although he felt better now than he had for awhile.

"Thanks, mate."

"You're welcome," Lee said. "Now, if it's not too much trouble, could you please get me down from here before all the blood rushes to my head and people mistake me for a Weasley? I'm way too good-looking to be associated with you lot."

And George, for the first time in a week, laughed.

It felt good.