Meant as a tribute to the Twins' birthday, April 1st.
Disclaimer: I don't own George, Fred, Ron, the series 'Harry Potter', or the setting.
George awoke slowly, eyes opening to the earliest light of dawn. His window stood open, the lamps in the room unilluminated. The faint rays of sun were the only brightness, yet they had been enough to wake him. He glanced over to Ron's single bed, where his little brother lay, still fast asleep and snoring. The bed directly above George's should have been creaking with movement, and maybe, on any other day, an annoyed snort should have reached his ears when his twin sensed him waking.
But today, this would be the hour that George would be harshly awoken from deep sleep, Fred begging him to rise– the first task of this special day would have been committing some crime to Ron's person.
But old habits alone were all that there was to wake him, now.
He sat up stiffly, not a whit of energy left in his tired, weakened muscles. He'd been awake all night, images flashing before his eyes; smiles, winks, smirks. All on his own face, yet not belonging to him. It had been early morning by the time he'd finally sunken under– only to wish he'd never closed his eyes to allow himself to dream.
Finally, straining on the ever thinning strings of will he still had left within him, he stood, trying to avoid looking at the empty bed above his own. He padded to the bathroom, gently urging the door open, squeezing through the smallest crack between the wood and the wall that he could manage so as to not wake the rest of his family. He slid through the smallest gaps easily now, having been unable to eat for so long.
He turned on the faucet, gripping the porcelain-colored sink in his hands and watching the water crawl down the drain, the thin stream creating only the quietest of sounds. He lifted a hand, releasing the blood that had left his knuckles pale and white back into his fingers. After letting the water drip over his skin for a moment, he slowly pushed his fingers through his hair, barely wetting it, droplets of water falling to land on his nose, the side of his cheek, his thin, dusty-orange eyelashes.
Finally, he found the stomach to face the mirror, looking at his face's reflexion with contempt. One ear was missing, a bare stump the only memory of its place. He closed his eyes tight for a few minutes, forcing back the moisture in them, before turning his head slowly to the side, hiding the missing ear, and leaving only Fred's face to look back at him when he reopened his eyes.
He tried to imagine that the shadows turning the skin under his eyes dark were no longer there, that the thinness in his face was just odd shadowing. It still wasn't enough. It would never be enough. Mirror images were mere illusions. Enough to satisfy until you realized that it would never really be what it appeared, never what you wanted it to be.
George tried to smile. For his brother's sake, for his own sake.
"Happy birthday... Fred," he said, voice breaking on the name that had been his own as well. The name he had been called so many times, never really minding the mistake. "Wish you were here to celebrate with me... brother."
I'm late, I know. It's short, I know. But it's all there is left, without Fred. Did anyone else wish them a happy birthday?