Chapter 1
After the Torchlight Red
Business had increased in record time after the final fall of Voldemort. Enormous numbers of witches and wizards crowded into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes almost every day, as if trying to make up for the general lack of happiness during You-Know-Who's reign. George had managed to keep everything running smoothly with the help of his close friend Lee Jordan and his brother Ron. There would be no problem carrying out his and Fred's plan to buy Zonko's Joke Shop later that year if the shop's profits held.
George sat at the top of the stairs, bracing himself for the beginning of another day smiling and making jokes. It had been easy to make light of every horror imaginable when he'd done it with Fred. They had finished each other's sentences and laughed off every unpleasant situation. But while everyone else in the Wizarding world was becoming more carefree, George felt that his own reality was becoming hazier with each passing day.
As he pressed his fingers to his temples, George's palms felt the difference between the left and right sides of his head. Grazing over the space where his right ear had been cursed off, he could not help but note that he felt riddled with more than one hole. Although the Weasleys were very close, not to mention their extended family of non-relations, Fred and George had always been something of an island just off the coast of the continent. And now that the island had been hit by a major explosion, George felt as though he were desperately clinging to a piece of driftwood in the middle of an ocean that threatened to swallow him.
"Mr. Weasley?"
George looked up to see Verity standing at the foot of the stairwell.
"Yeah?" he replied, offering her a weak smile.
"Did you want me to open?"
"Yeah, that's fine. I'll be down in a minute."
"Okay," she said, lingering for a moment before turning and leaving.
/
George was going over the last week's finances when Ron came in.
"It's mad out there! I guess it's good, but I hope it doesn't go on like this forever," Ron commented.
"Yeah," George agreed, "it'll die down once everyone isn't so starved for laughs."
"Hopefully," Ron said, walking past him to the stockroom, emerging a few minutes later with a box of Headless Hats.
"Out of them already?" George asked. Ron was about to reply when Verity hurried in and snatched the box from his hands.
"There's some German wizard about to go off his trolley," she explained before practically running out again. It took Ron a moment to retract the outstretched hands that his box had been snatched from. He shook his head and turned back to George.
"You alright?" he asked. "You've been back here all day."
"Don't really feel like amusing the masses right now," George responded, turning a page.
"That's happening a lot lately, huh?"
"Unlike that lot, I don't have that many things to be thankful for."
"Pretty shit way of looking at it."
"I think I'm entitled to look at it that way for at least another few months."
"No one's telling you that you aren't. There's a lot that we didn't lose, you know," Ron reminded him, placing a hand on George's shoulder.
"Yeah," George nodded, "I do know. I've just never had to do anything without him."
"We all miss him. But you can't let this change who you are."
"I don't know who I am anymore."
"Don't say that. You two were the only ones who ever managed to put a smile on everyone's face no matter how fucked it got. I don't know what we'd do without you."
"Turn into Percy?" George suggested.
"We can't let that happen, George," Ron said seriously. George rolled his eyes as Ron smiled.
"All right, all right," he said. "Motivational speech over. Get back to work."
"Right away, Mr. Weasley," Ron replied sarcastically, heading back out onto the main floor.
Despite the truth of Ron's words, George didn't feel any less numb. Everyone expected him to eventually return to form, making witty remarks and pulling pranks. At the moment, he didn't think he would ever feel like doing any of those things again. How could he, when he felt like half of him was lost? Ron didn't understand. None of them understood.
To them, Fred had just been a brother, a son, a friend. And while they mourned him, they could not possibly feel the loss as George did. A part of himself had been amputated – not just his personality, but his very soul. The loss of an ear was nothing to the feeling that he had been cloven in two; everything that he did felt strange because Fred was not there. The flat above the shop felt too empty, the shop itself felt less cheerful. Visits to the Burrow now felt incomplete and conversations were strained, Fred's death always seeming to loom over them although it was rarely brought up.
Would this feeling lessen over time? It would never disappear completely, he knew that. But everyone always said that things like this got better, or at least less painful, over time. It had only been about a month since Fred's death. Would he feel any different in another month? Six? A year? The possibility wasn't looking particularly likely at the moment.
It wasn't as if he wanted to keep on like this. But Fred was dead. Nothing would ever change that. So the question was, could he lead any kind of normal life without him? Wasn't he already doing that? He was maintaining a business. He saw friends and family on a regular basis. Wasn't this normal life? If he just kept doing it, would he eventually stop feeling like he had a gaping chest wound? If he just kept living and doing everyday things, kept smiling when he didn't feel like it and making jokes when he didn't want to laugh, would it just stop eventually? Or at least decrease to the point where he didn't feel like he was in a waking dream?
He had been staring down at the ledger, the writing becoming blurred and illegible the longer he focused on it. As he blinked himself back into the world, the words and numbers became sharp again. He had snapped his quill in two at some point, staining his palm and fingertips with black ink.
"You okay, mate?"
George turned to see Lee leaning against the doorframe.
"Sod off," George responded, having had about enough of the concerned looks and lectures about seeing the bright side of it all.
"No, then?"
"I don't want to talk about my being all right or not anymore today."
"Fair enough. But I'm here. We all are. If you need something."
"I need my best friend to not be dead. Can you help with that?"
"I can listen if you need someone to talk to."
"Well, I don't. So get stuffed," George suggested, wiping the ink off his hand with a handkerchief. When Lee didn't respond, George looked up. He had gone and George couldn't quite bring himself to feel sorry for telling him to bugger off. Of course he wasn't fine. Who in their right mind would be in his situation?
/
After the shop had been closed and everyone had left, George slowly made his way upstairs. As he shut the door to the flat behind him, he leaned against it and looked around.
There were still two chairs at the table, although the second was not used anymore. Fred's favorite mug, which had Shakespearean insults all over it, still hung on a hook above the sink. The Gryffindor banner that they had hung together still hung over the back of the couch. The door to Fred's room was slightly open, a one-inch gap between the door and the frame. He hadn't gone in since Fred had died.
He knew that one of these days he would have to box everything up and do something with it. Put it in a closet, perhaps, or give it to Mum. George walked over and pushed the door open.
As he sat down on the bed, he thought about how much it looked like the occupant might walk in at any moment. The wardrobe was ajar, displaying several sets of robes and his dragon-skin coat. A pair of trainers were strewn on the floor at the foot of the bed. George picked up the violently blue book sitting on the nightstand, running his fingers over the silvery title, Eye-Popping Enchantments for Entertaining. He opened to the place where Fred's bookmark had been, a section on how to turn yourself different colours.
Fred had been using a picture to keep his place. A few months after they had left Hogwarts, he and Fred had received a large envelope from Colin Creevey, full of photos he had somehow managed to take over the last few years. Colin was dead now, poor bugger.
George looked at the picture of Fred and Angelina Johnson at the Yule Ball. She was laughing at something he'd said. He was giving her a half-smile, obviously pleased with himself.
He hadn't seen Angelina since Fred's funeral. No one else had either, as far as he knew. Before Fred and George had left school, they had been close with the other members of the Quidditch team. He, Fred, and Lee had often accompanied Angelina and the other Gryffindor Chasers, Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet, to Hogsmeade. They would sit in the Three Broomsticks, drinking butterbeer and regaling everyone with tales of their latest escape from Filch.
They had seen less of them in the last few years. Before the war started, they would come round the shop sometimes, or meet them for a drink at the Leaky Cauldron. But communication had been limited in the year before Fred's death. He remembered talking to Fred about how nice it would be when it was all over, how there would be time for things like dates and romance.
Angelina was well-liked by everyone, George and Lee included, but Fred was always the one who caught her attention. He knew what a crush Fred had harbored for her, knew that it was one of the few things he regretted about leaving Hogwarts. They didn't see much of her, but he knew that Fred wrote to her. He'd spent a lot of time with her just before the battle at Hogwarts. There had been a lot of that in those final days, as if everyone knew it might be their last chance before they were dead.
Fred would never get the chance to see where things might have gone with Angelina. Never find out if things would get serious. Never find out if he would get married. Never find out if he would have any kids of his own, another set of twins with flaming red hair. And what about George? He imagined having kids of his own some day. What would he tell them about the uncle they would never be able to meet? What would he tell them about their father's best friend?
George replaced the picture and set the book back on the table. As he looked around, he noticed the corner of a shoebox sticking out from underneath the bed. He slid it out and lifted it into his lap. Pulling the lid off, he saw that it was filled with more pictures, some of them from the envelope they had received from Colin.
One of them showed Harry getting George right in the face with a snowball. A clipping from the Daily Prophet of the Weasley family in Egypt. A young Fred and George in their mother's kitchen, covered from head to foot in baking flour. The twins flying high in the Great Hall, a chain dangling from one of their broomsticks. The Gryffindor Quidditch team the year Fred and George had become Beaters. Fred plucking a bouquet of roses from his wand and handing them to a pretty blonde girl at Bill and Fleur's wedding.
As he replaced the box's lid and set it down on the floor, George tried to swallow the huge lump in his throat. He rubbed the back of his neck, willing the water forming in his eyes to recede.
George unclasped his robes and tossed them onto the floor. He pulled off his shoes and his shirt, leaving it all in a pile next to the bed. Pulling back the covers, he slid into Fred's bed and lay awake for a long time before falling asleep.
