Chapter One: His Everything

10th May 1998

One week.

It had been a whole week since George had lost his brother, his twin, his everything.

He had never known so much pain. It wasn't the type of pain you could quantify on a scale of stubbing your toe to giving birth, no it was the kind of pain which mercilessly ripped your insides into tiny fragments. It was the kind of pain which had destroyed George's heart so much that yesterday he had wondered; is my heart even still there?

Nothing felt right without Fred.

Being without his other half was unnatural, it went against all the laws of nature and the universe and yet –

He was still here.

How was it that the sun still shone and the world still turned and the birds still sang cheerful songs in the trees? How could he possibly continue to exist without the shining, guiding light that was Fred Weasley?

George was depressed. There was no question about it. He was practically catatonic in his grief.

For the past seven days, he had stayed locked in his and Fred's – in his room – refusing to speak to anyone, barely eating, and only leaving to be physically sick in the bathroom. Mum had left meals outside his door every day for the past week, still taking care of him despite the fact she was grieving too. And he appreciated the effort, he really did, but the thought of eating anything made him feel ill. So most days he left it to go cold. It was starting to show that he hadn't been eating – he could now count all his separate ribs in his ribcage, and his wrists were about as small as Ginny's now. He felt so weak, so pathetic, so god damned helpless.

Most of the family had tried to talk to him at least five times during the week. His dad would quietly stand outside the door, taking in sharp breaths as if he was about to say something and then letting it out again, becoming nervous. After perhaps two minutes of this he would knock twice and say George's name quietly. Each time George would stay silent and Arthur would try the handle, find out it was locked and sigh. He would ask George to talk to him when he was ready, or he would say something along the lines of "we're all grieving too but I can't imagine how much pain you're in. Is there anything I can do to help?", or he would ask him to come down for dinner. Still George would say nothing, tears in his eyes, and his dad would leave eventually. They all left eventually.

His mum would usually apparate into his room after getting no response. She would open the curtains every morning, do a few cleaning spells to get rid of the dirty socks and litter on his floor, and lay out fresh clothes for him. Occasionally she might comb his hair, and it felt kind of patronising as he was a 20-year-old man who owned a very successful business, but it was still comforting. Molly would ask him to shower and he would shake his head no, then she would ask him to come and eat breakfast, to which he would stare at the floor, then she would beg him to just say something please and he would look at her blankly. She would leave eventually, visibly upset and deciding to give up on him.

Since the battle, Bill and Charlie both stayed at home, not wanting to be without their family whilst they all suffered from grief.

Bill would always come and visit George in the evenings at about 8pm, knocking loudly. When he got no response he would sigh loudly and just leave.

Charlie tended to just apparate in when he felt like it, trying to pull George out of bed, handing him all sorts of leaflets about war-related grief counselling in St Mungos, telling him "what you need is a bit of fresh air." The last time he had come to see George was three days ago, and as he rambled on about solutions to getting over grief like meeting a nice girl, or finding something productive to do like inventing new products for the shop, the younger brother had snapped. He yelled, "I don't need your fucking help! Leave me the hell alone," pushed Charlie out of the door and slammed it in front of his face. He hadn't come back since then, and Ginny said he had gone back to Romania.

Ginny, like Charlie, seemed to think that talking endlessly about nothing in particular would help George. And, unlike in Charlie's case, it was kind of working. She would give him his own space, sitting herself down outside his door for about an hour late in the evening when she couldn't sleep and knew George wouldn't be able to either. And she would talk about everything but the war, Fred and grief counselling. She would tell him all about who was dating who at Hogwarts, the pranks she and Neville played on the Carrows, and new muggle music she had discovered. With Ginny, everything felt completely normal and natural.

Well, she always had been his favourite sibling after Fred.

Ron and Percy didn't come and talk to George. Perhaps they couldn't bear to see his face because he would remind them of Fred. Perhaps they were too busy, or too buried in their own grief. Or maybe Percy just didn't care enough to talk to him. Maybe he was too cowardly to look at him. George couldn't bring himself to care.

An alarm rang. He groaned. Despite the fact he was barely getting any sleep, despite the fact he had literally no reason to get up early, he still had an alarm every morning to keep a sense of routine, and to remind himself that another day was going to pass by with him doing nothing. It was like his pointless motivation because it did nothing except make him annoyed. He would consider leaving his room for the day, but every time he would be reminded of Fred and he would feel sick.

"Silencio," he muttered, and the silence rang in his ears.

He laid back down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Another day of emptiness. Another day without Fred.

Thinking of Fred brought back bad memories again.

He was back at Hogwarts, running through the corridors after Voldemort had called for an hour-long truce, sprinting and wheezing in his desperation to find Fred. Something felt wrong.

He passed unconscious and dead bodies of students, teachers, Order members and Death Eaters alike. The sight of some 6th year Gryffindors comforting each other and standing over Colin Creevey's lifeless, blood-covered body made him sick. He was just sixteen. Barely a child. The camera he would usually hold in his hands wasn't present and instead the boy's stiff fingers clutched onto the splintered wand which had failed him in his last moments.

But no matter how terrible it was, George didn't have time to stop. He rushed down the stairs, almost tripping, and passed Neville and Luna just before the door to the Great Hall.

"Hey, Neville – " George panted. "Have you seen Fred? I'm really worried. We were split up earlier – "

He couldn't finish.

Taking a glance through the open door he could see a family of distinct redheads gathered around a person lying on the ground, in the space where the Gryffindor table would be. The person was lying completely motionless and their mother was sobbing loudly.

"No – please don't tell me that's – anyone but – "

Without stopping to think, George pushed past Neville and Luna towards what was possibly one of his dead brothers. He felt like he might be violently sick all over the Great Hall. And he felt horrified at the thoughts that were racing through his mind. He was wishing it was Bill, or Charlie, Percy or Ron. Anyone but Fred. Please. Not Fred. He passed McGonagall and Slughorn, who were sat on the benches healing the injured. They watched him with pity in their eyes.

Many people in the Great Hall had now turned around to watch. Angelina, who had come in moments after George, sobbed.

There was a deep sense of dread in his heart – and as George approached, he saw none of the figures surrounding the body were Fred. There was Bill and Charlie, standing shoulder to shoulder, tears streaming down their faces. Mum, Dad and Ginny, kneeling down and trying to comfort each other. So was it Ron? Or Percy? Or Fred?

It was him. The figure on the ground had the same face as George. The same clothes, eyes, smile …

George's heart lurched and his knees buckled.

He made no sound. No matter how hard he tried, no sound escaped his mouth – not even a sob, or a whisper or gasp. He just stared at his dead twin brother. Fred's chest wasn't moving. For all of George's life, Fred had been living. Fred was born first. As long as George's heart had been beating, so had Fred's. Now it wasn't. Now it would never beat again.

Fred couldn't possibly be dead because a world without him could not possibly exist. They were going to own a flourishing business and they were going to live until 150 and play pranks on their great great grandchildren. They were supposed to never leave each other.

George's vision was blurry. He looked up from his twin's lifeless chest and stared at his eyes which stared vacantly up at the ceiling. All laughter was gone from Fred's eyes. The stars used to shine in Fred's eyes.

Now the stars had switched off and the universe was empty.

The sight of Fred's lifeless, vacant eyes brought George back to reality. Every time he blinked he would see his brother lying dead on the Great Hall floor, and the image of it seemed to be burned into his eyelids forever. The memory would never leave him. He gagged and practically fell out of bed to rush to the bathroom. George barged in without knocking and Ginny, who had been getting changed, shrieked and quickly pulled a towel over herself, but she couldn't even bring herself to be angry at him as he bent down over the toilet to vomit up the small amount of food that was in his stomach. It came out as nothing more than bile. There were tears in his eyes and he gave a desperate sob as he remembered that his brother was gone. Forever.

George gasped in some air desperately and tried to vomit again but nothing came up. His greasy, sweaty hair fell in front of his eyes and he pushed it back. He knelt down, slouched against the toilet, and put his head in his hands. Dizziness overtook him.

"Georgie," Ginny whispered, sitting down next to him and tying his hair back in a ridiculous top-knot to keep it out of his face. He and Fred had decided to grow their hair out a little in the past few months, partly to cover the gaping hole where his ear had been, and partly because it infuriated Aunt Muriel. Now his hair was just dull and dirty, and an annoyance. Ginny rubbed his back comfortingly and he couldn't help feeling pathetic. Here he was, a 20-year-old man, not able to function properly, being looked after by his 16-year-old sister. It was humiliating. "Do you need some water?"

"No," he replied, his voice hoarse. She looked slightly pleased that he'd even talked at all. Maybe she thought he was making progress. Well the truth was that the pain would never go away. Whether he talked or not, whether he went to counselling sessions or not, his twin would always be dead and there was nothing about that that would change.

"You need some water," she said stubbornly, as if she hadn't meant to ask it as a question in the first place. The splashing of water into the cup felt incredibly loud to his ears – well, ear – and his hand trembled as he took it from her and took several gulps. It relieved his throat and got rid of the vile taste in his mouth so he drank it all, sitting back onto his heels and leaning against the wall. The space where his ear had been throbbed and he winced. It still pained him occasionally, particularly in the last week when his body had been under so much stress. It acted as a constant reminder of how much he had lost in the war.

Ginny sighed, sat down next to him and reached up to put an arm around his shoulders. "Do you want to talk?" she asked softly.

"Not really," he murmured, leaning his head on her shoulder.

"Ok."

They sat in a comfortable silence for a while before Ginny turned to face him and held both his hands. She looked him straight in the eyes and he glanced down at the floor, trying to count the tiles.

"Look at me," she whispered.

George did as his sister said because if there was one thing he learned in life, it was to not disobey a Weasley woman.

"I'm not going to tell you that everything will be alright because it won't. Your life has been completely turned upside-down and you've lost the one person you cared about the most. It's expected that you'll be grieving, it's expected that you'll be heartbroken, and this pain will never stop. Because Fred is – " here she paused and inhaled sharply. "Fred is dead and there's nothing we can do to change that. All we can do is try to cope as best as we can and this – this, George, is not coping. It's as if you're completely lost without him, and you have no identity without him. But that's not true! You're George Weasley. You're brave, you're funny, sweet, caring and not to mention incredibly annoying, but you're your own person and you need to learn to cope as not a part of a whole but a whole. I'm not going to tell you to get over it because that's ridiculous. I just want you to stop feeling so god damned miserable and sorry for yourself, and to continue your life. I'm not saying you should forget Fred. Just please, please don't let yourself become nothing without him."

George just stared at the floor again, running his hands over his face. "I'm sorry," he murmured, this time placing his sister's head on his shoulder.

"It's ok," Ginny sighed. "Just promise me that you'll do your damned best to continue living. Can you promise me that?"

With tears in his eyes but refusing to let them fall, George nodded.

"Now let's get you cleaned up," she finished, wincing as she noticed the vomit on George's shirt for the first time.

-
Author's Note: wow, so here I am, months after updating my other stuff, back with yet another fanfic which I probably won't finish (because that's what I tend to do, ok?)If you're looking for a romance story this isn't the right place to be. There will probably be a minor pairing of George/Angelina but it won't be the main focus of the story. And this story will be angsty, sad and maybe meant for more mature readers as there'll be curse words & mentions of death. Depression and suicide will probably be a serious theme because that's just what Van Gogh's life was like. He was depressed and manic, he cut off his own ear, he tried to poison himself with paint... it's not happy stuff. So just be aware of that if you want to read this! And please let me know if you think the rating isn't suitable.
I'm going to write about the true story of Vincent Van Gogh's life, and incorporate George's life into that. I hope this is a unique plot that you'll be looking forward to reading!
Until next time (possibly weekly updates but it's hard because I'm at university now)
- Kathleen