A/N: For Omie, because two years later we don't miss you any less.

For those whose lives were cut short by the tragedy in Newtown, and for the families that are one less than they should be this Christmas.

"And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah"

-Leonard Cohen

Disclaimer: I do not own anything that J.K. Rowling owns.

Everyone would always ask for the first year. If he was okay, how things were going, if he needed help. But eventually the months turned into a year which turned into two and three, and everyone would start to assume. They'd assume that he was okay, that things were going as well as they could be, that he'd ask if he needed help.

It was on the anniversaries that people would remember. Every year on the second day of May, they'd remember what he'd lost, what they'd all lost. And on the first day of April, they'd remember that there should have been two people blowing out the candles. But what they didn't realize is that the anniversaries didn't mean a damn thing.

Sure, it was hard to look in the mirror on April Fool's Day and remember that he'd reached another milestone his twin never would. And of course it was strange to realize that it had been three, or four, or five years since he became just "George" instead of one of a pair. But that didn't change the fact that five years was, in fact, 1,826 days. And it didn't change the fact that Fred was gone every single one of those days, not just on the anniversaries.

When he thought about it, he supposed that in some ways, it did get easier with time. After the war, he hadn't been sure what normal was. Hell, after the war, he'd hardly been able to distinguish left from right. His family had been worried. No, that was an understatement. They'd been terrified. They were the only ones that had seen him on the bad nights, after all. But eventually, not every night was a bad night. Eventually, he realized that he'd survived. Eventually, he'd come to terms with the fact that just because Fred was no longer living didn't mean he shouldn't either. He'd come out of those dark nights with a new purpose—he would live, and he would do it for both of them.

His mum and dad had long ago stopped sending one of his siblings to stay nights with him, just to make sure he woke up the next morning in one piece. The truth was that he'd gotten to a point where he would ask, if he needed anything. It had taken him awhile to get there, to trust anyone enough to let them see him at his most vulnerable, but if the war had taught him anything it was that he would always be stronger with someone holding him up, and that he should cherish every moment with his loved ones, because no one knew how many more moments were left.

He had a good life now, really. He was a successful business owner, he had a gorgeous fiancée, and he had a family that would be willing to go to hell and back for him. People would smile when they saw him, on those anniversaries, and remark on how well he was doing. But it didn't erase the fact that there was something missing, and that something would always be missing.

That's what so many people didn't think about. They wouldn't realize that the anniversaries don't mean a fucking thing when you've still got forever to go. They could marvel at the fact that it had been five years, five long years, since he'd become half the person he once was. They could do that all they wanted. It didn't change the fact that in five, ten, fifteen, fifty years, Fred still wouldn't be coming back. And it didn't change the fact that no matter how many thousands upon thousands of days went by, each one hurt just as much as the first.

It wasn't as though he was the only one that knew this. His family understood the best. But it still wasn't the same. None of them had literally lost a part of themselves, because none of them had spent every single day of the first twenty years of their lives with him. As far as anniversaries went, George supposed, it was their forty-first birthday that he dreaded the most. That would be the day that he'd have officially spent more time without Fred than with him, and there wasn't a thought that haunted him more.

So when they asked him, every second of May, how he was doing, of course he'd say he was okay. Because he was. But the truth was that in the 1,826 days since he'd become just "George," he'd learned that being okay and missing Fred were not mutually exclusive activities, and that the anniversaries were really just another day. What was another day, after all, when he still had the rest of his days to go?

A/N: Anyone who's read my stories before knows that this was incredibly different from what I normally write. It's both sadder and shorter, but it's what's been going on in my head lately given recent events, so here it is. If you'd like to let me know what you thought, that'd be lovely. If not, that's cool too. Thank you for reading. :)