It still hurt.
It had been fifty years since the Battle of Hogwarts, fifty years in which his hair had faded, turned white, and begun to fall out, fifty years in which his skin had wrinkled and sagged, fifty years in which everyone he knew had grown accustomed to the hole on the side of his head, fifty years in which his joints had dulled and weakened, fifty years in which everything about him had grown old and washed-out and muted except the memory of his twin brother.
Fred lived on in George's memory, bright and shiny and so alive it still cut into George every single time it occurred to him that his brother was dead, even now, fifty years later, as he watched his grandchildren play and thought of the grandchildren Fred would never have.
It still hurt.
It still haunted his nights and battered his days. It still left him crying sometimes.
It still hurt.
It would always hurt.