Yikes! Forgot to credit the wonderful Leviathan with the Barricadus spell - his own invention, and better than Durex any day.

This story would NOT leave me alone. And I'm talking about since a week after DH.

George Weasley sighed, breathing in the stuffy afternoon air. It was a strangely close, sultry day. The sky somehow managed to be iron-grey and yet radiate stifling heat.

He looked up at the trees from his perch on the park bench in the clearing, a little way away from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. When the pressure of running the shop alone got to him – as it did, frequently – he'd tried to get Ron and then Percy to help him, but the shock of looking up from his work every time to find they weren't Fred had made him give up that idea in a hurry – he came here to get away, to clear his head, to think.

He was never sure why nobody ever seemed to intrude upon him there. Perhaps his palpable emptiness and grief poisoned the atmosphere around him so thoroughly that people didn't like to go there. Perhaps word had got round that the crazy owner of the shop didn't like to be disturbed. Whatever the reason, he was grateful.

Except today. Perhaps word hadn't got round to the heavyset man walking over to the park bench, stump, stump, stump, heading straight for his little corner of seclusion and peace. George stared pointedly up at the tree and concentrated all his energy on projecting a mental Do Not Disturb Sign. But it was no use. The bench shifted and groaned underneath him as the stranger settled his weight onto the opposite end.

Even then, George was prepared to suffer the unwelcome presence for a few moments. Just until the man finally realized he wasn't wanted and got up to leave, or George did.

Until he spoke, turning so that George saw his surprised expression. "You!"

The sight of Gregory Goyle's face was enough to undo him. He wasn't even conscious of flying from his seat to tackle him. Through a haze of red he felt himself attacking. He only knew that the sight had ripped through some last vestige of self-control, had opened up a volcano of hatred in his heart he hadn't known existed. He felt blows being aimed back at him, in a free-for-all of punching and kicking and hitting, an inhuman, animal frenzy, biting, screaming, clawing. All he could see was that gloating grin, gloating at his brother's death, and he let himself go, gave in to the madness. Saliva dripped from his mouth as he screamed unintelligible words and he saw his blood smearing the other's face where he had bitten into his shoulder. "YOU KILLED MY BROTHER!" he howled, throat raw, and kept repeating it as the people eventually came, until somebody called the Aurors and they arrived, broke it up, until somebody calmed him with a well-aimed "Stupefy."

His mother studiously refrained from reading him the riot act, and a misdemeanour charge of disorderly conduct was all that transpired – Goyle could have charged him with attempted murder, but had strangely refrained.

It was three months after the incident that Goyle dared to show his face at his spot again. As before, he walked towards the bench, only this time when he sat down at the other side from George, he carefully avoided looking at him. He just sat there. After a while, George ignored him, or pretended to, and looked up at the tree in studied silence.

The other remained until George finally tired and went home.

The next week, he came again. And the week after that. Although the day of the week varied, it was always the same routine: he sat there, not looking at George, but always on the same bench, as though there weren't perfectly good patches of grass all over the place. As though there weren't perfectly good parks, and park benches, all over the place.

Today, it was no different. Of course George had no curiosity whatsoever towards the member of the hated gang of common thugs who had cut away his other half, had no desire whatever to know anything about him, but still, sometimes—no, he didn't wonder why Goyle came here. He just wished the man would go away, right? Right.

George sat, and sat, and chanced a mere flicker of a glance over at the other, to see—he didn't know. To see what he could see.

There was no gloating on his face now. Fixed, immobile, lost, he sat staring up at the same tree that had once so mesmerized George, as though, if he looked up at it long enough, it could yield some immense secret... the secrets of the universe... or the reason for the death of—

George ripped his gaze from the other, stared hard at the grass. In a moment, he rose and strode jerkily away.

Sometimes, he would arrive to find Goyle sitting on the bench first. It ought to annoy him, but it didn't. The man kept himself to himself, after all, and he had as much right to be there as George.

As much.

The thought niggled at him, sometimes, and he didn't know why.

He hated to admit it, but after nearly eight months, on the days when the other wasn't there, he felt somewhat – well, not disappointed, but – he'd lived all his life with a presence beside him, and now the empty bench felt unbalanced. Godric knew he had enough unbalanced-ness in his life to last a lifetime.

Today had been a disgusting, miserable day. The second anniversary of the Final Battle. Harry and his family had enough sense to stay in and lock the doors, but every other idiot in the Wizarding World was out celebrating. National Wizarding Holiday, great Gryffindor's ghost, what fools, parades and floats and re-enactments – as though anyone who'd been there would ever want to live through it again – and to him it was just a celebration of Fred's death. They didn't mean it that way, nonono of course they didn't mean it that way, but if he had to look at one more smiling, happy face he would explode into violence, and he had no desire to add killing an innocent child to his list of sins, so he closed up shop early and made a beeline for his park bench.

For once he wished the other wouldn't be there. He really wanted to be alone with his thoughts, but it wasn't to be.

As he walked towards the bench he noticed – for the first time? He couldn't be sure – the other's attitude. He was hunched over, his face almost between his knees, his hands linked over his head, such a picture of utter despondency that George was jolted for an instant.

But only for an instant. He took a deep breath, focused on the tree and strode forward, putting one foot in front of the other, and found his way to his spot on the bench. He relaxed as much as he could into the wooden slats and tried to concentrate.

It was, he supposed, a beautiful day. The sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in the sky, which was a clear, brilliant blue. He tore his eyes away from the sight, fixing his gaze on a patch of shadow on the grass beneath him. It was mocking him, he thought angrily, mocking his grief. He hated the brightness on days like these, days that reminded him that he was only half of himself, that the gaping hole in his side would never be filled again, that...

A ragged breath from the man next to him made him glance sideways instinctively. For some reason, his defensive instincts weren't roused, and he was proved right when he saw the man curl up a little further into himself. Something in his attitude made George look closer—his nose was red—was he drunk?—and as he kept looking, a grunt that might have been a sob escaped Goyle as he began to rock back and forth.

George folded his arms. The man had killed his twin. He and his lot were the reason Fred... The thought of the name, which he tried to avoid on days like this, came upon him like a storm, and he groaned. He tried to suppress it, but he couldn't, and his attempts to block his vocal cords caused his groan to come out in a sort of high-pitched keening whine. Tears stung his eyes and he pounded his knees with his fists in an effort to make himself stop. Stop? How could he stop? No, how could he go on? He sobbed, harshly. How could he go on? How could he ever—

A clean handkerchief was thrust into his clenched fist.

He wiped his eyes with it without thinking, buried his face in the cotton for a second, then, realizing whom it had come from, flung it to the ground as if burned, jumping up from the bench and taking several steps away. "You killed my—my twin," he rasped accusingly.

Dull, lost eyes looked up into his, so devoid of aggression that it gave him pause. "You killed mine," the other said flatly.

"What?" George blustered, beside himself with the insult, yet unable to attack. "How dare you?! How dare you compare—"

But Goyle just shrugged, sinking back into his despondency, seemingly unable to form a sentence, and that silenced George as more shouting could never have done. He took a step towards the bench, then another, then, seeing the solitary figure completely still and unmoving, sat gingerly back down on the bench. Feeling strangely afraid the stolid, heavyset man would bolt, George asked hesitantly, roughly, "What d'you mean?"

The leaves rustled in the sprightly breeze, the waves of grass rippling in the sunshine. George was starting to wonder whether to repeat the question when Goyle began to speak.

"We grew up t'gether," he said slowly, every word seeming to take a great effort. It took George a moment to remember that the only way he had ever seen Crabbe and Goyle was together; they'd always been a matched set of bodyguards at Malfoy's side, from the moment he'd first laid eyes on them on the Hogwarts Express. He'd assumed they'd met on the train; no he hadn't, he corrected his own thought guiltily – he hadn't assumed at all, he'd just never envisioned one without the other. CrabbeandGoyle. They were a unit. A matched set. A pair of bookends.

A pair.

"They lived in the house next to ours," the other continued. "Our dads were friends. We – I don't remember meeting him. He was always – just there."

George nodded, a lump forming in his throat. He knew Goyle was the enemy, but he brushed the thought away. "And now he's not."

Goyle nodded. "Yeah. And I..." His brow furrowed in frustration. George could see the thoughts, the feelings churning beneath the surface, lacking the ability, the articulation to put them into words. He's not that stupid, he suddenly thought, just inarticulate.

"You wonder why you're still alive when he's not?" George ventured. The other nodded. "Why you have to wake up in the morning when he isn't there?" The nod encouraged him, so he went on. "Why they didn't take you as well, why you should have to live when half of you has been cut off?" And it was as though a dam had burst, and the words tumbled out of him, desperate, choking: "Why the hell you should have to stay alive, why can't you end it, only ending it would put that look of sadness in your Mum's eyes so you stay, you stay for them, and you try to grin and bear it, you really do but every day there's that same fucking question: How are you going to get through the rest of your life when there's a great gaping bloody hole in you where he should be and the world is going on, life goes on around you but you're just stuck here and nobody can even begin to understand and you're so young, so many bloody years ahead of you before you can even think of a rest, and you have to go on living and living and living..."

He broke off. The desperate relief in the other's eyes shocked him. "Yeah," Goyle said gently, nodding, eyes wide open and tears streaming from them unashamedly. "Yeah."

"Nobody ever said that to you before, did they?" George said, surprised at the hint of lightness in his voice, in his heart. As though a weight had been lifted off his chest.

"No." The other looked at him with tormented eyes, searching for words, and George let him, wondering how many times he'd been interrupted in his muddy life. The weeping man rubbed at his face with his sleeve.

Embarrassed, George had the decency to fish around on the grass for the handkerchief he'd thrown to the ground. "Here," he mumbled.

"Ta." Goyle wiped his face with it. When he lowered it, he had a huge grass stain across his left cheek. "I know we're not bright," he said, seemingly unaware he'd used the present tense, "but that was all right. We got by." He paused a moment. "And now..." He looked around, giving it one more try. "Now..." He raised desolate eyes, their childlike simplicity lending him a terrible pathos. "I can't say we - he's not there."

"I know." George let out a mighty exhalation. "I know."

After a while, the urge to comfort the simple, stolid man grew too great, and George inched closer to him, so that their shoulders were almost touching. He could tell it was helping by the soft breath, the way the man relaxed back into the hard bench, the change in the quality of the tears. He knew Goyle was a Slytherin, the enemy, the ones who'd hurt – who'd killed Fred, dammit – but that reality seemed far away, remote in comparison to the needing, suffering man beside him, the man whose suffering he understood, and George had never been one for over-analyzing. Neither had Fred, for that matter.

Probably, the thought arose unbidden, neither had Crabbe.

"What're you up to these days? You know, after?"

It happened sometimes like that. They would sit in silence for what seemed like hours, and one of them would ask a simple question. Usually, the other would answer without too much embarrassment.

This time it was George who asked the question, and Goyle who answered. "Not much," he mumbled. George had learned not to push, and after a few mumblings about family and goblin-gold trading, the other man went on, "I sh'd be at work now, but Dad – he lets me be."

George stared for a moment. Work was one of the few things he counted on to fill his empty days, or he knew he'd go crazy. Granted, it drove him crazy to go to work when Fred wasn't around, but still... "How do you fill up your days, then?" He swore inwardly. That was too personal a question, and the other had every right not to answer it.

But he did, after a few moments' thought, and his answer was surprising. "Vince had a girl," he mumbled. That was surprising enough, but then Goyle muttered, "Squib."

George turned to him, eyes nearly popping out of his head. "No!"

Goyle turned to look at him then, and there was the ghost of a smile upon the dull features. "His Mam and Dad would've killed him if they'd known," he said. "Didn't make much of difference, in the end..." George saw it, the moment when you pause in the gallows humor to see how deep the knife in your heart is going to twist this time, the inward gaze, the relief when you realize your guts aren't going to come spilling out of your throat today, at any rate, and went on. "She had a boy."

There was no mistaking his meaning. George could only stare. Finally he stuttered: "Vincent's?"

"Yeah," Goyle actually smiled. "I always told him he was too thick to use Barricadus. Turns out I was right."

George ventured a smile at that, testing his own heart, too. It occurred to him that Fred wouldn't have wanted him to mope. Fuck Fred. Should have stayed around to make sure he didn't, shouldn't he? He surfaced from his thoughts to catch the slow words: "...to play with the kid twice a week and give her the cash. She thinks there really was an insu-rance po-li-cy," he says with a sly smile, stumbling over the words. "Doesn't know it's me paying."

Was there no end to the surprises today? He stared, with a strange compassion, at Gregory Goyle's proud smile. "Always did tell Vince I was the bright one."

Despite himself, he felt himself break into a grin. "Mebbe you are at that, Goyle."

"Call me Greg," he entreated, the pleading tone in his voice so obvious that George had no choice.

"Greg," he said, trying it out. Then he rose and bolted from the clearing.

"So how's the kid?" he asked one day.

"Great," Greg broke into a smile. "Talking better'n me now."

"That wouldn't be a stretch," George gave a lopsided smile, then held his breath. He hadn't been this teasing, this forward, to Gregory before. In fact, he suddenly realized, he hadn't been like this to anyone since—well, since—

But Greg just laughed good-naturedly. "Yeah."

"Any magic?" he added, in haste to change the subject.

Greg looked at him with that slow, serious expression that means he really had something on his mind. "You know," the words came out measuredly, "I really don't care." He sounded surprised. "Magic or no magic – I like him. He's just a kid."

"Pity your lot couldn't have had that bright idea five years ago or so, isn't it?" George snapped bitterly before he could stop himself.

But Greg just fixed him with that simple, open gaze. "Sometimes I wish it so much," he said, "I would die for it."

He didn't bolt – Greg never bolted – but he plodded out of the clearing with as much speed as he was able.

"Sorry," was the first thing George said next time they met.

"So'm I," Greg responded immediately.

George looked at him. "What for?"

"Starting the war," Gregory responded matter-of-factly.

George actually burst out laughing. Only Greg would say something like that. "Oh, come on!" He clapped the other man on the back. "The war started before we were born. We just finished it."

"Well, yeah," Greg said slowly, "but I'm sorry... I'm just sorry," he finished lamely.

"So'm I," George sighed.

"What about?"

"Vince," he said, only now realizing he'd used the nickname without permission.

"Me too, about Fred," said Greg, and hearing the nickname on Greg's lips, George realized, somehow, that people weren't really dead as long as you remembered them.

He grinned suddenly. "Did I ever tell you how we got the idea for that swamp?"

He knew Greg didn't understand half what he told him, but it felt good to talk.

It was ages since he'd started coming to the clearing, and now he came because it felt good not to be alone. Somehow, the other broken half sitting next to him on the park bench completed him. He wasn't Fred, and he wasn't a substitute, but when he was there, it was better.

It had been brewing in his mind for a while now. Today he had finally decided to ask the question. "Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"I need some help with the shop. I just can't do it all alone any more. Stocking shelves, filling orders... I don't need you to play pranks, I just need someone organized, with a solid head on his shoulders." He looks at Greg. "Would you consider the job?"

He saw the spark of interest in the normally dull eyes, and felt a flash of pride himself. But then, as clearly as if he'd said it, he saw the doubt in Greg's eyes: Why me, with a houseful of brothers to choose from?

"Well, it's not as if they don't have their own lives," he added, quick to explain, "and besides..." Deep breath. "Besides, I've tried that before. Can't have anyone with Weasley hair in front of me. It hurts too much to know they're... they're..."

"Not Fred."

"Yeah," he sighed, relieved.

Greg sat silent for a moment, but George had grown used to his placid temperament. Finally he said, "I like it that you don't remind me of Vince either."

George smiled reassuringly, hearing the bereavement beneath the words. "At least you've got his kid. That's something."

"Your brother died a hero. Vince..." He trailed off, a thread of pain in the usually expressionless voice.

"Death's death," said George, and if he was just a little bit proud that Fred had died a hero, it was only tactful to hide that from his friend. "Vince was doing what he thought was right. Can't blame him for that, eh?" It was true, he reflected; they'd been kids, indoctrinated, too young to know any better, most of them...

Greg didn't sigh – he never did – but looked straight ahead. "I wish..." He trailed off.

George reached over to pat his hand. "We'll see them again someday. Till then, we've just got to make the best of it, eh?" As he said it, he was sure that no one could be more surprised than he himself was to be saying those words – and even more surprised to find he meant them. He'd thrown something at Bill for saying something to that effect the day after the funeral. Then again, Bill hadn't lost his other half, hadn't known what that meant. But Greg... "Else they'll kick our arses when we finally do see 'em."

The pain in the stolid features dissipated, and Greg slowly nodded. "Makes sense."

"So d'you want the job or not?"

"I'm not so quick..." Greg started.

"No," George decided to lay all his cards on the table, else he'd never get this said. "You're not so quick or so bright or so creative as Fred, and I'll be frustrated as all hell trying to get things through your head sometimes. Me, I'm quick, and I'm a mischief-maker, and I'm more trouble than Vince ever was, and you'll have to scramble to keep up. If you can live with that, so can I."

The broad face broke into a slow, rare smile. "I can live with that."