The day after the funeral of Molly Weasley, who passed on in her sleep, at the age of 143, a few days after Arthur Weasley, aged 142, George was put in charge of clearing out their old room at the burrow.

While sorting through his late mother's wardrobe, separating everything into neat piles, and trying to hold back tears which were already spilling over, running down his cheeks as he was bombarded with all the memories he associated with the different items that he had found, he came upon a box.

It was a plain-looking thing: brown, tied at the top with a worn, red, ribbon, and it would be very ordinary, if it wasn't for it's extremely large size.

George didn't think much of it at that time, as he was clutching an old picture of the family, taken during their holiday in Egypt, watching them smile and wave at him, as if there was nothing wrong. Their smiles pained him, and he felt a twinge in his chest, because he knew that the photo would always preserve them this way. Always waving, always smiling, because they didn't know of the horrors that the war would bring them. Always... Happy.

And then, looking at that, recalling the memories, the tears that he had been trying to hold back overflowed, like a dam breaking, dripping over his freckles, gathering at his chin, and falling onto one of the few items that he still cared about. His last sweater, the last half of the pair, the physical remains of his last Christmas spent with his other half.

He remembered that Christmas, speaking and having his sentences finished, in the exact same words that he would have used... Christmas dinner, singing very loudly and out of tune (On purpose, of course), and then staying up late to work on new merchandise for the joke shop, their dream. How they wore each other's gifts, and called themselves "Gred and Forge" for one of the last times. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, even as tears were flowing freely down his face, onto the "holey" sweater that was now his most prized possession.

Sometimes, late at night, when there was very little sound, he swore that, if he listened hard enough, he could hear his brother's chuckle. The healers said that it was the stress of losing someone that close to him; sometimes, he agreed. But, each and every time there was a quiet night, when he went to sleep, he couldn't help but strain his ears, and hope, put all his hope into wishing that it was real, that there was some magical link between them that was unbroken by the lines of life and death. And sometimes, he would make up jokes while waiting for the sound. Once, just as he thought up a brilliant punchline, he heard it. And, just that night, for the first and last time, he swore he heard the sound of someone shaking their head, and an almost silent whisper of "Oh, Georgie"

Hugging the picture frame to his body, the cold glass seemingly a chunk of ice against his chest; hardly surprising, he thought, as his sweater was close to falling apart, held together only by charms and desperate wishes. He wrapped his arms around himself, a few seconds before his knees gave out under him, and he fell forward, still clutching the photo. He wept. He wept for his past, he wept for his present and, even more, his future. He wept because of the Battle of Hogwarts; he wept because he knew he could have saved his twin. He could have leapt in front of him, and died in his stead. At least dying would be better than the pain he had to feel every day, the pain of knowing that his life would never be the same.

His sentences would never be finished, even when he stopped himself in the middle of one unconsciously, expecting another to say what he was thinking, in the exact way he would. But then, after many moments of silence, he would realise that that would never happen.

"Fred is dead"

George opened his eyes, not knowing when he had closed them. His vision was blurry, his cheeks were damp, and he could taste salty tears on his lips. His fingers were clasped tightly around his shaking body, digging into his back. Closing his eyes, he concentrated his energy into taking a big, shuddering breath, and then exhaling slowly, like the muggle healer told him to. After several minutes, he shifted to one side, using his arm to stabilise and prop himself up. Then, he slowly stood up, on shaking legs, putting the photograph where he was just lying. Wiping his face on his sleeve, he took another shuddery breath, and blinked a few times to clear his vision.

Determined to finish what he started, he stumbled forward a little, as he was walking towards the box; the brown box, with the worn red ribbon. Bending over slightly, grasping one of the ends of the scarlet band, he pulled.

Opening the box, he felt tears roll down his cheeks again, but he didn't care.

It was like he was in a dream, he felt dazed, disoriented. He fell to his knees again, even though, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that it would hurt him. All that mattered at that moment was the box, and what was in it.

He knew. Dear Merlin, he knew. If he were to count them all, there would be exactly 94. They would all be the same colour, blue, and they would all be made with the same amount of love that they had always been made with. The ones on the bottom would be older, maybe they would have holes in them, eaten away by moths over the years. Even though he couldn't see anything anymore save for blurry shapes and colours, he knew that the ones on the top would be newer, and that they would be the exact same as the ones on the bottom if it wasn't for that.

Lifting one up and cradling it to his chest, not caring that it would soon be soaked in his tears, George felt his heart break a third time; for, pressed tightly to his own worn letter "G", was a capital "F"