A/N: I own nothing. Nothing at all. It all belongs to JK Rowling and her publishing house and it's affiliates.
It was half past midnight and Madame Rosmerta had just cut him off.
"One more? Please?" He rasped, slurring some of his words.
"You're drunk enough." She told him. "Go home George."
He stood up and stormed out, knocking the barstool he was sitting in previously over and slamming the door shut as he left. He apparated back to the flat he used to share with Fred and stumbled into his kitchen, searching for that old half-empty bottle of firewhiskey.
All his life, George had been a twin. Half of a whole, mirror to another, a partner in crime. Now his twin was gone and he was alone. Half of him was missing. He was incomplete, unfinished, and at the moment, incoherent.
He found the bottle he was looking for and started searching for a clean glass. That search turned up a fat load of nothing. When was the last time he had done the dishes? Screw it now, he couldn't remember. Wasn't it Ron's turn anyway?
He used to be a joker. Without Fred though, he couldn't bring himself to even grant a smile to the world. Ron had moved in shortly after Fred's death and had taken over the shop as well. Given that George hadn't even reopened it since Fred died, it wasn't much of a heartache for George. Without Fred by his side, his heart just wasn't in the jokes anymore.
He managed to find a cup that was semi-clean. It would do. He began pouring the firewhiskey into the cup. After he had put the bottle down, he picked up the cup and began drinking. It burned his throat and he could feel the fumes of the alcohol all the way in his ears.
After a few more refills of firewhiskey, his vision began to blur. Everything was doubled. Except him. Because his double was gone.
An incomplete fool like him. Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was a Fred and George venture. Not a George venture. Without Fred, George was nothing. No one. He was empty.
A week after Fred died, George had begun drinking. He went to The Three Broomsticks because Rosmerta was there. Because she had been there at the Battle when Fred died. He didn't know if she had seen Fred's death or not. He could barely remember anyone else being there except for him and Fred.
His brother. His twin. His mirror. The part of his soul and heart that was missing. Dead. Fred had died with a smile on his face when a wall fell on him. Somehow, that smile just made George feel worse.
He took one last sip of the firewhiskey, this time straight from the bottle, which was now emptied of it's contents. He closed his eyes. He was always closing his eyes these days. It was the only time he could ever see Fred.
He saw Fred. Fred, his smiling, laughing, beloved twin. His double. George called out for him, but just as quickly as he saw him, Fred was gone. And water splashed over his face. He opened up an eye.
"Mum?" He groaned.
"I'm not your mum. You look like hell. Get up."
He opened his other eye. In front of him stood Angelina Johnson, almost looking like an angel, what with how the morning light spilling through the windows bounced off of her. How the hell did she get in here?
As if reading his mind, she answered.
"Your brother asked me to come over. Thought I'd be able to get you up off your drunk ass. Now get up." She said.
He shakily got up, his head spinning. He could feel a headache coming on and the light outside was killing him. But he knew Angelina and he knew better than to complain.
"Now come on." She said, walking away and expecting him to follow. Which he complied with.
They got outside and the bright light made him close his eyes. He didn't see Fred. For the first time in months, for some odd reason, he didn't see his twin brother. He saw someone else.