A/N: I'm really, really sorry for not updating my other story. I'm kind of busy on another novel, and I have zero inspiration. In the meantime, here is a short oneshot I wrote while attempting to escape writer's block. It's sad. I cried while writing it. But I felt that it was...right, somehow. R.I.P. Fred. We miss you.

Fred Weasley mounted the stairs to the flat above the shop two at a time, whistling. Despite the aura of fear and suspicion since Rufus Scrimgeour's death, or maybe because of it, business at the shop was going well. He dropped the sack containing that day's takings onto a table just inside the front door, and pulled off his work robes.

"Oi, George! Supper ready yet?"

"Depends on your definition of ready," his twin's voice came floating back from the kitchen. "It's definitely cooked."

Fred opened the kitchen door, wincing as a gust of smoke hit him in the face. "I guess this means we're eating at the Cauldron again?"

George emerged from the smoke and steam, frowning. "And I'm paying—again. I don't see how you and Mum do it."

"What, cooking? There's this handy little thing called a timer."

George sighed, and Fred chuckled. He and his twin had been taking it in turns to make supper for the past year and a half, and George seemingly still hadn't gotten the hang of turning the oven off at the right time. They'd been eating at the Leaky Cauldron a lot lately.

"Evening, gents," Tom the barman said as they entered from the back. "The usual?"

"Yes please."

The red-headed twins sat down at a table in the corner. George looked around at the almost empty pub.

"You know, sometimes I wonder how our brother's doing."

"Which one?"

George lowered his voice. "Ron. Every so often, I look at what's happened to the Ministry, to Diagon Alley, and I'm glad he's well out of it."

"Yeah, off on a mystery mission with the other two." Suddenly, Fred grinned. "I just realized something."

"What?"

"Wherever they are, he and Hermione have been together the last three months with only themselves and Harry for company."

George chuckled. "How long d'you reckon it will take them to finally get it together?"

"Dunno, Ronnie can be rather oblivious sometimes."

"Oh, I'd be surprised if they last until Christmas without snogging."

"Really? Nah, I don't think they'll get together until they've finished whatever it is they're doing. You know Hermione, once she focuses on something, she won't stop until she's achieved her goal. She won't have time to juggle a relationship in the middle of all that."

"That's what you think. Bet you five Galleons they'll be together by Christmas," George said, leaning back in his chair.

"How will we know who's won?"

George shrugged. "Ask them when we see them again?"

"Right then. You're on."

George sat on one of the chairs, not saying anything, not responding to what was happening around him. Everyone else in his family had been crying for days, but he wasn't able to. He wasn't feeling anything.

It couldn't be possible that Fred was gone. Whatever the casket in front of him contained, it wasn't his twin. Fred was somewhere else. He didn't know where, but it wasn't at that funeral service.

The service ended, people started to leave, and still George sat there. His face was blank, as though he'd completely shut himself off from everything.

Ginny touched him lightly on the arm. "George?" Her voice was choked with tears. "George, come on, it's time to go. Time to—say goodbye."

"No." It was the first word he'd spoken all day, and his voice was low and rough.

George stood up, walking towards the fresh grave—his brother's grave. It wasn't right for Fred to have gone on without him. They were always together, in everything. But now—George didn't even know how to feel anymore. He was completely numb.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ron and Hermione, their arms around each other. He'd heard that they'd gotten together during the battle. And that was why he was kneeling among the flowers in front of his brother's headstone. Because there was something he still needed to do.

Numbly, he stared at the carved words, reading them, but not really taking them in. Fred Weasley, April 1, 1978 – May 1, 1998. Beloved brother, war hero, will be missed deeply, they were all just words. Words couldn't do Fred justice.

Slowly, George pulled a small sack out of his pocket and placed it among the bouquets.

"You win, Fred."

And then, at last, he broke down. All the tears he'd held back, all the emotions he'd been shutting off, they all came pouring out of him in a torrent of grief and anguish, sparked by the sight of the small brown sack among the flowers. Five Galleons.

They'd bet about Ron and Hermione so long ago, in October. George hadn't thought about it since, until after the battle. As it turned out, Fred had been right. And now, George paid over the Galleons, even though Fred would never collect his winnings.

The flowers in front of the headstone had nothing to do with the boy who had always hated fuss and ceremony. They were just there for show, nothing more. But among the meaningless bouquets lay a small brown sack. Five Galleons. Fred would never receive them, but he had still won the bet.

And that, George felt, was a more fitting tribute than anything else he could have given his twin.