And George
Summary: For a long time after Fred's death, George couldn't look in the mirror. Because it still felt like half of him was missing, and half of him would be missing forever.
Whenever George caught his reflection in a mirror, in glass, in clear water, the lump in his throat was always too big to bear.
Fred wouldn't have wanted him to be sad, but what else could he be? Because no matter what he wanted, Fred was gone. Fred was lost.
Forever.
And forever's a mighty long time.
George knew that he could never actually be happy without his twin ever again, because, well, they were twins, weren't they? They were half and half, fifty-fifty, Fred and George.
They were Fred and George. Now he couldn't say they were Fred and George anymore. Fred was just just another death in a sea of dead, another coffin buried underground. Another gravestone among gravestones.
George looked just like Fred. Their facial features were exactly the same.
So every time he saw himself, it was like he wasn't just staring at himself. He was looking at Fred.
He had cried more times after his twin died than he had ever cried in his life. He was usually so cheerful, so wicked, so charming that seeing him as anything but that would be strange. It was a common occurrence, though, those days after the last battle, when he smashed in his bathroom mirror so he wouldn't have to look at him.
Because part of him was dead.
Part of him was missing.
It hurt to know that Fred had been erased from the big picture.
It hurt to know that his date of birth now had his date of death tacked onto it, because death was so final.
And George?
George was George, and that was it.
