Dear Fred,
It is pretty humid outside right now, so we're all huddled inside where it's cool. Harry and Hermione are over for the first time since
We cleaned out your room over the shop last week. Actually, we cleaned out mine too. I moved back in with Mum and Dad for a while; I'm still trying to get used to my missing ear and it's even harder without
Oh, bloody hell. What I want to say is: you're dead, Fred. You died one month and sixteen days ago. You're bloody dead as a doornail, whatever the hell that means. You're dead and gone but guess who's still here, Fred? Me. And I'm not moving back home because I lost my left ear. I'm moving home because I lost my fucking twin brother. And without my brother, I don't understand how I'm supposed to eat or work or think, let alone run a fucking joke shop.
So I went home, since nothing seemed to have a point anymore. But that's even worse, because the joke shop and its flat only have two years of memories of you, while the house has twenty years.
I open the kitchen door and expect to see you inside, rummaging for more food. I looked out the window, expecting to see you messing with garden gnomes. I walk to our room, expecting to see you exploding something.
Twenty years, you walked and talked and moved through the house, but that's it. We don't get twenty more years of you, or even just one year, or one month, or one more day.
What I wouldn't do for one more day together.
And I keep thinking of pranks to pull, but I always need another person. Bill and Charlie are usually good, but they went back to work this week. Percy's missing two testicles, so he's out of the question, and Ron is alright, but he usually finds a way to screw it up somehow. Not his fault, but still. That leaves Ginny; she's probably the closest thing to you, aside from some key anatomical differences.
But none of them are you.
I never realized how irreplaceable you were; maybe that's a good thing, because if I had realized this, I would have been so scared of losing you. And rightly so, because I've lost you now, and it hurts, beyond anything I could have ever imagined.
Bloody hell, the only thing I can say is that I fucking miss you. I don't understand why you had to go or why any of these things happened or why I'm missing an ear or where everything spun out of control…all I understand is that I fucking miss you.
Love,
George