Five years, eleven months, twenty-nine days, and eighteen hours had passed since that fateful day. To the public, that day disappeared, swallowed up through the march of time, an event only mentioned in passing, along with the era it was in. But to George, May 2 would always be real—fresh—painful. He was there when it happened.
George never forgot the limpness, the shallow breath, or the emptiness he felt. The pain was always there—burrowed up in the back of his mind, constantly gnawing at his conscience. There was nothing to be done about it—yet he still blamed himself; he should've been there, he should have stayed with his brother, he should've just kept that Death Eater away with defensive spells instead of relying on close-combat magic, he should've known. But either way, the past remained unchanged. Fred was still dead. And in a way, a part of George was also dead.
In a few more hours, May 2 would arrive once more, and George would spend the day in tears as the memories of his brother rushed back. Some years, George would try to talk himself into finally cleaning out the childhood bedroom he shared with Fred. Every time his hand reached the doorknob, however, he would lose the strength to continue. But over those five years, eleven months, twenty-nine days, and eighteen hours, he had slowly scraped together a meager amount of willpower. Maybe it would be enough this time. George closed his eyes.
He opened the door.
A sorry cloud of dust billowed about, slowly settling to reveal the room George had dreaded for so long. Although the room had clearly seen better days, everything was exactly how they had left it. The beds were unmade. A cauldron sat in the corner, half-filled with a forgotten concoction that had begun growing warts. The Muggle dartboard Dad had got them for their tenth birthday still hung on the wall. George picked up one of the darts and absentmindedly threw it at the board. It flew in a loop-the-loop before striking the bull's-eye. He smiled for a bit—maybe the old days weren't gone forever—
The loop-the-loop was Fred's idea. The thought struck him out of his nostalgia, and his spirits dropped. He gingerly placed the dart on a table and sat on the bed. There, he noticed the scorched floors that no rug could hope to cover. He smiled bitterly, remembering the good old days when the shop they ran together was in its infancy. Whenever either one of them struck upon an idea for a new prank item, they would spend their nights slaving away at turning it into a reality. The scorch marks on the floor were a testament to those days. He remembered the sleepless nights they spent hunched over their record book, meticulously recording the details of every recipe trial in their mad pursuit for perfection. They lived an oxymoronic existence that would confuse any schoolchild—advanced potion making was never meant to be fun. George absentmindedly reached for the record book and flipped through the pages. As he stooped to put the book back under the bed, his eye caught on a glint of gold binding that should not have been there.
He picked up the strange book. By all accounts, Fred would never have owned such a book. Dragonhide covers and gold binding? That was far too extravagant for a Weasley—any money spent on such a book would have easily bought a dozen tattered secondhand copies. George knew all this, but he still felt an overwhelming urge to keep the book. Slowly, he turned the book over and looked at its cover; it had only one word, embossed in silver.
Resurrectio.
Author's Notes: Hey, thanks for reading. Please review. I have the world's laziest beta so forgive me if I am slow at updating. ~S