Ginger and Auburn

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Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe belongs to the brilliant J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers. I own only the plot of this fanfic.

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The air was still and a little humid despite the season approaching early summer. Spring still lingered heavily around. In the courtyard near the Burrow the atmosphere was uncannily silent, as though even the birds and other creatures that roamed were somehow aware of the sombre significance of what was going on around them.

It was still early in the morning, the sun barely midway in its ascend to its palace at the top of the sky, and the first guests have yet to arrive. Rows and rows of neatly laid empty wooden chairs sat beneath the black tentage that stood where Bill and Fleur's wedding had taken place. The canvas enclosure was much smaller than the tent used during the wedding; this was supposed to be a small ceremony after all.

George Weasley let out a small sigh as he stood at the entrance of the tent, eyes taking in the scene before him. The interior was decorated plainly with black and white roses, very much appropriate for a memorial service. George frowned, raising his head up to lean against one of the poles framing the entrance. This was not right.

Indeed, sombre colours were fitting for a sad occasion, but this was not just any memorial service they were arranging. This was to be Fred's memorial service, for goodness sake. He hated monochrome; heck, roses were not even his favourite flower.

With a little groan of protest from aching muscles, George pushed himself off the pole he was resting against with a kick and marched determinedly down the aisle that ran between two sections of chairs. At the end of the wooden river that divided the seats into two blocks was no coffin, unlike at Dumbledore's funeral. This was no funeral, after all. There was no body; Fred had long been buried hastily along with the other heroes who had sacrificed during the War. Instead, a simple, smiling photograph of his glorious being stood on a wooden table, looking a little forlorn and lonely.

"Hey, buddy," George whispered when he reached his destination, panting slightly from the surge of emotions that coursed through his body. With a strained smile, he crouched down on one knee so he was at eye-level with the animated picture of his twin. He plucked one of the roses adorning the photograph and with a simple tap of his wand, watched with a small, satisfied grin as it transfigured into a bright yellow sunflower in full bloom before his eyes. He set it gingerly before his brother's photo and unwillingly noticed how badly his hand was shaking.

Unsteadily, George rose to his feet, his gaze never once leaving the smiling face he loved so dearly. The scene looked much more perfect now, the bright bloom jarring against the sombre colours of everything else in the tent, drawing your eyes instantly to it.

Because that was how Fred was. Even in a household filled with loud, boisterous boys and an extended family that was too big for the Weasleys' humble abode, you found yourself drawn towards Fred. His bright smile, his infectious laughter, his wicked thoughts, lit up anyone's life like a much needed burst of sunshine.

And this bright spot will never shine on his life again, forever.

George felt a choked sob rising up his throat and his hand instinctively flew to his mouth to suppress it. He rubbed his freshly shaved face and ran his hand through his newly cut hair ("You must look presentable for your brother!"his mother had all but screamed at him the night before), trying his best to not let his face scrunch up and succumb to tears. The air was feeling unbearably stuffy in his three-piece suit adorned with Fred's favourite red tie.

The fifth Weasley son closed his tired eyes and tried to imagine his twin standing beside him in a matching suit, cracking cruel jokes at someone else's death. That brought a small smile back to his lips, but he was not sure how long this method of coping would last. People always told him that they were sorry for Fred's death, but what about him? Was no one sad that he was abandoned by his other half? He had spent every single moment of his life since birth with his twin; he had absolutely no clue how to live without him. George had often screamed into the emptiness of their once shared bedroom that Fred was a selfish bastard for leaving him here. Heck, he had even wished that their roles were reversed, and it would be his brother left with the pain of having half his heart ripped out instead. Then again, George could not bear having Fred go through this pain of being left behind.

Waking up every morning to be greeted by the sight of Fred's empty bed across the room from his was pure torture. George gave a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose to relieve the pressure building up there. He felt a gentle tap on his right shoulder and his heart leapt up in hope before reality sank in and he realised that it could not be his brother standing beside him.

He opened his eyes a little reluctantly as he turned his body to acknowledge the owner of the hand on his shoulder, a slight tilt of his head to the right. "Hello, Angelina."

She offered him a warm, brave smile, although her eyes remained fixed on the photograph that was before both of them. There were bags under her eyes and her smile was a little forced, but she was still as beautiful as George had remembered her to be. It was easy for him to understand Fred's attraction towards her. Angelina was in a simple black dress, even less adorned than what she wore to the mass funeral. But George could still see the quiet sparkle in her eyes as she reminisced her other Beater.

"You're too early; the service doesn't start until 10." George felt Angelina's hand slip from his shoulder as she clasped her hands together in front of her thighs. He gave an involuntary shudder, feeling oddly cold again now that he could no longer feel the heat of her body on his.

"I just wanted to spend some quiet moments with him before the crowd gets here," she said softly, as though afraid of waking the pain of reality with her words, eyes drifting to the floor in front of her.

"Would you like me to leave then?" George stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, spinning on his heel to give Angelina her privacy. But he barely took a step away from her when he felt her hand grab his left forearm. The gentle contact sent small ripples of warmth coursing through his lean frame.

"No, don't. Fred would have wanted you to be near him every moment. Please don't leave." She turned her face slightly to look at him and to George's dismay, he found tears pooling in her large chocolate orbs. He reached out to gently wipe the tears away with the curve of his right forefinger and she hastily retreated, blinking rapidly, alarmed and embarrassed to find herself crying even months after Fred's passing.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled through a strained, reassuring smile.

"Don't be," George ran a hand through his red head, clearing his throat in response to the awkwardness that had settled within the cover of the tent. He knew of nothing else to say. I'm sorry? Don't cry? It's going to be okay? One thing his twin's death taught him was that such words people exchanged in funerals were utterly useless and meaningless. There were no words, not even the most profound spells, that could ease their pain or bring his other half back to them. Being sorry would not bring the dead back to life. Tears still flowed in the heart even if eyes were dry. And as much as he might wish for it, no one was sure if things were going to work out alright.

"Hey," Angelina's soothing voice brought him out of his thoughts. There was a gentle pressure on his chest where she had placed one hand while the other busied itself with fixing the knot of his scarlet tie. "Isn't the weather too warm for a tie?"

"Yeah," George admitted with a sheepish grin, raising his chin a little to give her more space to adjust the strip of cloth until it fit snugly at his neck. "But I wanted to look… good. For him, you know? Me wearing his favourite tie on such a warm day; he'll have a good laugh at how foolish I look."

"I think you look mightily fine," Angelina gave a sincere laugh, her bright eyes twinkling.

He returned her smile and they stood side by side, enjoying the tranquil silence, each lost in his own memory of the brilliant man in the photograph before them.

"He…" Angelina began, rubbing one arm subconsciously with the hand of her other, "he used to joke about us getting married… having children and all. I used to imagine how our children would look like: a mixture of flaming hair and warm skin. But I guess… I'll never know now."

A blush spread furiously across her cheeks and her gaze fell hastily on her shiny black pumps. "I'm sorry, I must sound really silly saying all these to-"

"I think Fred would be a good name."

"What?" Angelina lost her train of thought, her head snapping up to stare at George's profile. His eyes were still transfixed on his twin's face. "I'm sorry, but what did you say?"

"Fred," George's eyes shifted to the side to meet Angelina's bewildered ones, "would be a wickedly lovely name for a boy with red hair and olive skin."

"Fred Weasley?"

"Fred Weasley Junior," he corrected her, rolling the last word off his tongue like he was savouring the last mouthful of a delightfully good meal. "Will you raise little Freddie with me to be someone as spectacular as his uncle was?"

Angelina returned her gaze back to the smiling picture. "I think he would like that," she mused quietly. It almost seemed now that Fred was smiling directly at them instead of into some camera lens.

George reached between them and grasped Angelina's hand, giving it a little squeeze of support and strength. As the sun slowly claimed its throne over its vast kingdom, they stood in a comforting silence, and for the first time since May, dared to have hope in a future even without Fred.

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A/N: This idea formed first took shape when I realised that George married Angelina, but Fred was the one who took her to the Yule Ball. Why it took years for me to flesh this out in words is simply beyond me. :/ I am not trying to claim that George and Angelina did not marry out of love; I'm just exploring this idea that has been bugging me.

I haven't written anything Potter-related for so long, I hope I'm not out of touch! Please feel free to point out and errors/typos. Reviews are much appreciated! Thank you!