There's a sort of stillness in the air as George stares down at the stone with an agitated expression; the left corner of his lip is being chewed nervously and his eyes are screwed up a little as they stare at the writing printed on the stone as he re-reads over and over again the name printed there in gold.
"I bought a jacket today." he says boastfully, to the stone. "Hundred gallons. Designer, by some muggle bloke. Bought it from the new Exchange." Silence follows, and he stares at the stone then gives a small sigh. "Must be going off my rocker, thinking you'd care about some stupid bloody jacket. The shops doing alright, we've-" he begin to say, then catches himself, "I've expanded a bit. We've got a shop in France- can you believe it? Fleur – through Bill's persuasion- has been promoting us."
A small gust of wind blows and weaves through his shoulder length red hair and he feels a strange sensation where his missing ear should be; almost like when applying pressure to a scar. He shivers and folds his arms, giving the stone an annoyed look.
"You're a selfish git, Fred." he whispers harshly and suddenly his eyes sting. He hasn't cried since that day, and now he feels so ridiculous, so pathetic and mostly so vulnerable now as he blinks some tears angrily. "How could you leave me to do things by myself, you stuck up prick." he hisses, glaring at the stone. "All that paperwork, and god, the COUNTING..." he shakes his head, laughing a little in irony. "Here i am." he chokes out, still laughing, his face wet, "making jokes at the most inappropriate time."
The wind picks up and George suddenly becomes a little aware – a little too aware- of how alone he is, in the cemetery, and closes his eyes.
"Yea well, i'd better go i suppose. It's Rosie's birthday." he mutters, shoving his hands into pockets. "I'll see you in... Oh, i don't know. Another six months?"
And with that, he turns and he walks away, mouth formed in a frown as the wind blows in his face.
And the stone, against it leans a similar figure, an identical mouth formed in the tinniest hint of a smirk as he watches George walk away, his fingers tapping against the stone rhythmically. "Bloody liar," he whispers, voice coarse. "You say that every time you visit me, then show up two weeks later." He grins, closing his eyes. "Hundred gallons for a jacket," he mutters, shaking his head, "my poor dear brother has gone wrong in my absence it seems." He opens an eye, just as George's figure disappears in the distance, then closes it again, and then quickly, without a punchline, he's gone.