Mirror, mirror, on the wall...
It was a better day.
Not a good day, because those were gone forever, but a better day all the same. He managed to get out of bed because his mother was worried about him, and he even ate a little breakfast.
But then he retreated to his room, feeling his breath come heavily into his lungs, making drawing air in and out a struggle. He marvelled that even the simple act of breathing was more difficult without his twin.
He lie on his bed and stared at the ceiling and remembered.
He was remembering one day in particular. He and Fred had bought a copy of muggle fairy tales in London and read them on a rainy day when they were eight. He recalled how hard they had laughed, clutching their sides in agony, at the eccentricities of Muggle royalty, of princesses who got trapped in towers and grew their hair abnormally long and of king's daughters who ran away to live with dwarfs, the stupidest of all woodland creatures.
Nothing remotely significant had happened that day except for the one phrase that had ended every chapter in the book of fairy tales, that one phrase that had eluded them then and taunted him now.
And they lived happily ever after.
How could he live happily ever after without his twin? How could he live at all?
He got up heavily to use the bathroom, being careful to tread only on his half of the room. They had made a pact when they were six to only stay on their own half, and he did not plan to break the pact anytime soon.
He walked lightly down the hallway, hoping his mother would not notice that he was out and about because he knew she would want to talk and oh, how he didn't want to talk, not about Fred and not about anything else.
He hadn't really wanted to use the bathroom, not really; he had just wanted an excuse to look in the mirror. Like always, as he looked up, there was a brief instant when he forgot everything else and thought he was looking at his twin instead of himself.
One glorious half second before he remembered.
He would never tell anyone this, but it was because of these half seconds that he continued to get up in the morning.
His next question was a combination of madness and of having fairy tales on his mind. "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, which twin did the Dark Lord maul? The one who died or the one who cried?"
George wasn't expecting an answer because this wasn't a muggle fairy tale and there were no happy endings.
And a tear squeezed out of his eye just then, and he sank to the floor beside the sink as tears began to fall faster and faster, and he let them fall. He began to repeat his question as a mantra, over and over, as if it had the power to make everything better.
"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, which twin did the Dark Lord maul? The one who died or the one who cried?"
"I'll tell you," said Harry almost coldly as he leaned against the door frame. George hadn't seen him walk up. "The one who cried. It's always the one who cried."
George could only stare without speaking.
"The ones who die never have to do the living without. And the living without is much more difficult than the dying." He laughed bitterly. "And I should know, I've done both."
"But you've-you've never lost a twin," said George, his voice cracking.
"No, but I've lost a mother. I've lost a father. And I've lost a godfather, not to mention the friends I've lost. Dumbledore. Mad-Eye Moody. My owl. Remus. Tonks. Your brother." His voice took on a softer quality. "Look, mate, I'm just telling you, I know about the whole loss thing."
George wiped a hand roughly over his eyes. "Does it ever go away?" he whispered.
Harry's voice was gentle. "No. But it does get better. Right now you see him everywhere, you hear him everywhere, and it brings you pain. Later it will bring you happiness."
"When?"
"It could be tomorrow; it could be a year from now. I don't know, mate. But you will. And it will happen, mark my words." He clasped George on the shoulder. "Good luck."
Nineteen years later, George got an urgent owl. "Come immediately to St. Mungo's," it said, in Harry's handwriting, and so he went, feeling a flight of anxiety because he didn't know for the life of him why he was being summoned. Was Ginny hurt? Was Ginny dead?
He passed a mirror as he walked towards the fireplace, and he winced, because it hadn't gotten any better. It was still difficult to look at a face so close to his lost twin's. He knew he was lucky in a way, because he still got to see his loved one age; Had Fred lived, he would look nearly identical to how George looked now. But it made the burden no lighter, and it made his clothes hang no less limply on his too-thin frame, his hair no shorter, the shadows under his eyes no lighter.
He felt like he hadn't slept or eaten in nineteen years.
George was walking distance from Ginny's and Harry's house, walking distance from his little sister and one of his closest friends, but he rarely visited.
Come to think of it, he rarely went anywhere.
He tossed the powder into the flames, yelled "ST. MUNGO'S!" and came sputtering out of the fireplace.
It was then that George remembered that his little sister was expecting a baby soon.
He remembered the day six months ago Harry had told him, grinning sheepishly and saying, "I told the silly girl that we shouldn't have any more now that Albus and Lily and James are in school, but she was insistent, said she likes having little ones around the house..."
Feeling fondness for his sister, he made his way to the sixth floor, which was reserved for birthing in general. He wondered if she had screamed as loudly when she gave birth as she had the time Fred had vanished her hair when she was twelve.
He walked into the only room with an open door, where Ginny was in the hospital bed, cuddling a baby with flaming red hair who somehow looked familiar... Wordlessly, she handed him over, and he felt himself reaching for this tiny child.
"He's a boy," she said breathlessly and full of joy. "Nine pounds exactly, and absolutely perfect! And oh, George, just look at him!"
And he looked.
The baby was a perfect miniature of Fred and him. Chiseled features, freckles, red hair... And two ears.
He grinned.
"We'll be naming you godfather, of course," said Harry, grinning. "And as godfather, we think you should name him."
The little boy closed his fist around George's wand, which was peeking out of his pocket. Amused, they all watched him for a moment. The newborn tugged the want free and chewed on it for a moment before weakly waving it.
A jet of orange light flew across the room towards Ginny, vanishing her hair.
She screamed, and Harry and George laughed at her.
"I think," said George, "that we should name him Fred." And he continued to laugh, really laugh, in pure bliss.
Harry and Ginny couldn't help but notice his pure happiness for the first time in nineteen years.
"Mirror, mirror, on the wall," said Harry softly. "Which twins weren't dead after all?"
And they didn't live completely happily ever after, but it was close.
A/N: Tell me what you think... I've been wanting to do a one shot about George ever since I finished Deathly Hallows.
So yeah, give me some feedback, dear readers.