A/N: I can't imagine how George could go on without his twin, and I feel like the books kind of glossed over his loss. So I wanted to give him a little attention. Sorry if it's a little angsty. All feedback appreciated! Will probably be adding more chapters.

Disclaimer: All characters owned by JK Rowling

George Weasley sat on his bed in the room he once shared with his twin brother, Fred. He looked over to the empty bed across from him, the blankets still rumpled as they'd been carelessly strewn aside the last time Fred had slept there. He felt a hollowness in his chest, an emptiness somehow so heavy he was pulled down with its weight. An intense pressure had built up behind his eyes from which the tears still would not fall.

George's mind wandered back to the funeral that had taken place a few weeks ago. It had been a dismal affair. The morning had dawned with a soft blue, cloudless sky, the warm spring air and bright sunshine jarring unnaturally with his somber mood. In his mind all was winter—full of sleet, snow, driving rains, icy winds, and piercing cold. But the mocking sunshine persisted all day.

George had stood and watched as his brother's body was lowered into the ground, listening to the sobs of his siblings, the wails of his mother, but all he felt was numb. He moved through the ceremony mechanically. As he listened to the eulogy given by his father, the words added by friends and family, he stood by silently, unable to speak. He knew Fred deserved better, knew he should do something, say something, but he just couldn't find the words. He stood beside his family as one by one, mourners passed through to offer their condolences, the empty words surrounding him like echoes from a far off distance. He tried to force himself to respond, but could manage nothing more than a grunt or a nod.

Eventually they'd all gone back to the Burrow, the Weasley family along with their close friends. They ate and drank and talked about Fred, sharing memories and laughing through their tears, but George couldn't bring himself to join in. He knew Fred would have wanted him to. Fred would have wanted this to be a celebration, a lively party full of the laughter and fun that he had been so full of throughout his life. But George couldn't find that part of himself anymore. He felt as if all his laughter had died with Fred.

As the night wore on, the guests had begun to disperse. Somehow, he had felt even worse as the numbers dwindled down until he was surrounded mostly by family. Unable to stand the pitying looks in their eyes as they all tiptoed around him as though he were made of glass, he decided he needed to get out of there. Resisting all protests and pleas from his mother to stay, George had returned to his own flat above the joke shop in Diagon Alley. His own flat. The words sent a chill through his bones. It was no longer theirs.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, George dragged himself to his feet. Shuffling over to his dresser, he pulled out a few items of clothing and threw them on. Shoving his feet into a pair of beat up old shoes, he left the room and ambled down the hallway into the bathroom. As he brushed his teeth, he stared at his reflection in the mirror with a pained expression. Every morning he felt haunted by that image mirrored back at him. He didn't think he would ever be able to look at himself again without thinking of Fred. Bending over the sink, he rinsed out his mouth and straightened back up, staring at his reflection once more. After a moment, he pulled his wand out of his back pocket and aimed it at the face looking back at him. "Evanesco," he muttered, vanishing the mirror. He sighed, wishing he could have vanished himself along with it.

George moved into the hallway and trudged down the staircase. Reaching the bottom, he pulled open the door in front of him leading into his joke shop. His joke shop, he thought again with a pang. How strange it was to be only one instead of two. He shook his head and stepped forward, moving into the dimly lit shop for the first time in weeks. He paused and let his eyes adjust to the gloom, the only light in the room peeping in from the gaps between the curtains. He thought of illuminating the lamps, but decided against it. He didn't really want that much light.

Moving through the deserted shop, past quiet shelves full of loud products, George looked around himself at the accumulation of his and Fred's innovation. Picking up an item resembling a shoe, he read, "Instantly silences footsteps. Perfect for performing pranks, hijinks, and general mischief. Always remain undetected with a pair of Sneaking Sneakers! (Additional shoe sold separately.)" He remembered this one, it had been his idea. He recalled the intensive development process, the long days of trial and error, as he and Fred spent weeks working out the kinks. It was hard work, but it had never felt like work, not with Fred by his side. They'd had so much fun together, enthusiastically testing out new ideas or building upon old ones, while even their failures were a boundless source of amusement to them. George tossed the Sneaking Sneaker aside despondently and moved on. He couldn't imagine ever inventing anything again. He supposed his days as an entrepreneur were over now. He mulled this over, trying to decide how he felt about that. Shrugging, unable to muster up enough energy to care, he found it didn't much trouble him.

Suddenly he heard a distinctive hoot, followed by a tapping and fluttering at the shop window. Sighing, he sauntered over towards the front of the shop, squinting in the sudden glaring sunshine that met his eyes as he pulled back the curtains enveloping the casement. Lifting the catch that secured the windowpane, he pushed open the glass, letting a tiny grey owl swoop in.

George recognized Pigwidgeon, his brother, Ron's, owl as it flapped past him, flitting erratically about the room before finally coming to rest on his shoulder. Holding out its leg, it presented a small scroll tied with a red string which George began to unknot.

"Get off it, Pig," George muttered to the owl as it nipped at his ear, "That's the last one I've got left." Fishing around in his pockets for some owl treats Pig could snack on instead, he found a few dusty morsels, feeding them to the owl as he broke open the scroll. Unrolling the parchment, he recognized the handwriting as belonging to his sister, Ginny.

Dear George,

I had to borrow Pig from Ron to send this. I hope he gets it to you on time. I told him to take it straight there, but you know how he gets distracted sometimes. I know you haven't been answering any of our letters, but I'm going to keep writing to you anyway. Mum wants you to come around this Sunday for dinner. I wish you would. She's driving me mad. She's got this endless list of household "projects" that need to be done, and keeps us all busy from morning till night. She's worse than she was before Bill's wedding. You'd think after we finally defeated You-Know-Who, we could all relax a bit, but she won't stay still. She's also made it her mission to try to keep me and Harry separated. She thinks if she keeps us busy enough, we won't have a chance to get up to anything. It's completely unfair too, because she leaves Ron and Hermione alone. You'd need a crowbar to pry those two apart. They are practically joined at the hip, and frankly, it's sickening. At least Harry and I can keep our hands to ourselves in public. Of course, with Mum around we have to. But I didn't grow up with you and Fred without learning a few tricks about how to get around Mum.

Anyway, we miss you George. Come visit us soon.

Love,

Ginny

George looked over Ginny's letter before rolling it back up and sliding it into his pocket. He let Pig back out through the window without sending a reply. A vague feeling of guilt prodded at him. He'd been avoiding his family ever since the funeral. He knew it wasn't fair to them, but he just hadn't felt like facing them all. Not without…George felt the pressure behind his eyes increase as he thought of who would be missing.

Abruptly deciding he needed to get out of the shop, George slammed the window closed, quickly latching it before making his way over to the front door. Pushing through, he paused only to lock it behind him before proceeding hastily down the cobblestone street. His only thought was to get away.