The usual litany of disclaimers.
He just wanted to see Fred again. George Weasley gazed at his singular reflection in the mirror. If he closed one eye and tilted his head a bit so the missing ear wasn't visible, he could pretend it was his brother standing before him, laughing and talking. Like the old days, before the war. It was now or never and he couldn't live like this anymore. Liquid soaked his shirtsleeves where he'd roughly wiped away tears. The decision had been easy. Choosing a method was more difficult. 'Obliviate' wouldn't work…simply forgetting his brother wasn't enough. 'Avada Kedavra' wasn't designed to be used on oneself. He'd finally decided on a Muggle method and a sharpened razor blade lay on the counter, inches from his shaking fingers. Surely Fred's death had been no less frightening. The blade was in his hand and on his skin. George closed his eyes, thought of his brother and drew the razor across one wrist, then the other. As the room began to fade, he looked in the mirror one more time, and watched Fred smile back. He sat down heavily against the bathtub. His last thought was of Fred and then everything went black.
Molly Weasley, the only other occupant of the house at that moment, was downstairs making lunch. Harry, Ginny, and Ron were due back from Diagon Alley any minute and they were sure to be hungry. Out of habit, she kept one eye on the unusual clock hung above the sink. The final battle of Hogwarts had been several months before, but the desire to know her family was safe stayed with Molly.
Let's see, Arthur is "At Work." Ginny and Ron are "Traveling." Oh good, they'll be home soon then. Charlie and Bill are "At Work." George…George?
As she watched, not quite understanding, George's hand on the clock moved from "At Home" to "Mortal Peril." It didn't make sense, perhaps the clock was getting old, but still she wanted to make sure. Bewitching the food to continue preparing itself, Molly ascended the stairs, forcing herself to remain calm. There was no answer at his bedroom door so she turned to the bathroom across the hall. "George?" she called. "Are you in there, dear?" No answer. But the door was locked. Shaking her head to squash the rising panic, she went up to the third floor and checked Ron and Harry's room, Ginny's room, even in the attic. Finally, she stood in front of the bathroom door again. Never one to worry too much about invading privacy when she was anxious, Molly unlocked the door and opened it a crack. She froze; mind, heart, and soul going blank. Her son sat on the floor in a puddle of blood, his face as white as the tub behind him, not moving. Suddenly coming to her senses, Mrs. Weasley threw herself across the threshold, caught up her son, and disapparated to St. Mungo's.