I figured I'd better put this in here...DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter or anything relating to Harry Potter. I do not know the author or any other people having to do with Harry Potter. I am just a lover of good fiction. I am not writing this for profit, only for fun. I enjoy taking an idea that someone else has started and daydreaming and coming up with my own version of what happened, and thus this fan fic was born/is being born. Whether you enjoy it or hate it, I want to know either way, so please let me know! Okay, I'm done now...on to the story...

Prologue

It was dark. When exactly did the darkness become so intense? When had it become so…well, so dark. It seemed to soak into everything in the shop; not only that but it seemed to emanate out of the shop onto the twilight-lit street. Strangely, passersby didn't seem to notice, only the one standing in the doorway, holding the door open. But, then again, some things had seemed quite a lot more extreme to him lately; the darkness was not the first thing he had noticed. George Weasley sighed and entered the shop on Diagon Alley for the first time since Voldemort had been killed. It was also the first time since his brother's death.

He moved around the shop almost mechanically, looking at the items on the shelves, but not really taking stock. He ran his hand over a shelf that was emptier than others, and didn't even notice the dust even as he wiped it off onto his black robes. For several minutes he did this, never seeming to notice much but rather appearing to be absorbed very deeply in his thoughts.

It had been months. George wasn't sure exactly how many; they all seemed to run together in a blur. All he knew was that people seemed to think that he should have recovered by now, that he should be back to normal. And he tried to be, or at least to act like it, when he was around other people. But he knew he hadn't been very successful. And so, acting as though he were fine and he was ready to get back to life as it had been, but really just wanting to get away from the scrutiny of his family and friends, George returned to the joke shop on Diagon Alley.

He remembered when he and Fred had last closed up the shop, expecting to be away for awhile. The war against Voldemort was intensifying, and they wanted nothing more than to be a part of it. They had packed up some of their more expensive items and put them in boxes protected by spells, but mostly they were in a hurry and just left things as they were. The trash can hadn't even been emptied, and in it there was still a crumpled list in Fred's handwriting of what they needed to put away and what could stay on the shelves. George remembered how Fred had only made the list so they could get the job done faster – he was always eager to get out and do things; what little organizing, thinking, and keeping track of things was done was left up to George.

And just look where Fred's eager impulsiveness had gotten him. George absently raised his hand to the side of his head, where his ear would have been if it had not been sliced off by dark magic. At least that was the worst thing that had happened to him; Fred had been killed.

The realization that Fred was no longer around, would never be around again, suddenly hit George with a force almost physically painful. He sank to the floor, leaning his back against the front counter, and buried his face in his hands. He didn't cry, he hadn't cried, he wouldn't cry – he refused to cry. But sometimes it was hard to cope with the knowledge that his accomplice, his brother, his best friend was gone forever.

A few moments later, George squared his jaw and forced himself to stand. Well, he would just have to keep going without Fred. Even though he felt like a part of himself was gone, like half of himself was missing, that was no excuse. George couldn't joke, couldn't laugh, could hardly smile – but he could breathe, he could walk, and he could reopen the joke shop. It wouldn't be the same; it could never be the same again. But, after all, he was stubborn and would make it on his own.

This decided, he immediately set about cleaning and making the shop decent enough to open the next morning. The work was good, it helped him to push his thoughts away. And in the absence of thoughts came a welcome numbness. He wasn't happy, but at least he didn't feel the perpetual gnawing emptiness, either – or at least, he could ignore it better. He could at least keep breathing.