Author's Note: This story is written for the QLFC, Finals Round 2. As Beater 2 for the Falmouth Falcons, I had to write about Fred Weasley's Basic Blaze Box (from the Explosive Enterprise range) from Weasley Wizard Wheezes. My optional prompts were (restriction) one line of dialogue, (song) 'Careless Whisper' by George Michael, and (word) desk. This story connects a lot with chapter three of 'On The Verge of Happy Endings', my first chaptered fic. If you want to know how the fireworks display ended up, you should head over and read it. :) A big thanks to Arty, my amazing captain, for beta reading!
Word count: 1580
George Weasley was not dead.
The garden behind the Burrow had been laid out with tables and chairs, surrounded by white drapery and fairy lights. Oh, and pictures of George and Fred. So many pictures, as if his parents feared everyone who attended the memorial service had already forgotten what Fred looked like. As if they'd forgotten they only had to look at him, the still-alive twin, to remember.
What was so wonderful about Fred anyway? Merlin, he could be an arse sometimes. It wasn't supposed to be George's responsibility to keep him in line, but he tethered Fred down the same way Fred threw George to the sky. Without Fred, he never would have bet their entire savings during the 1994 Quidditch World Cup, or stolen Bill's wand to transfigure Ron's bear when they were five, or invented that stupid boxing telescope. A black eye isn't worth that uncreative a joke. It goes right down there with 'I'm holey.' At least George could excuse himself by blaming the blood loss from the giant hole in his head. What was Fred's excuse?
In the distant sky, George could see the miniature blurry images of the flying horse carriages that were taking his family—and Harry and Hermione, of course—to the actual funeral. The burial. The end. The goodbyes.
George wasn't ready to say goodbye. He wasn't ready to be an individual instead of one part of a pair. He'd never been separated from Fred for this long, and the proof was in those pictures. From the day their mother held them as newborns, one in each arm, to the day of Bill and Fleur's wedding, a pretty French girl on each of their arms, the twins had only been apart for when in the company of a shower, toilet, or girl.
A hand seemed to squeeze George's heart, cutting off its beat for two long seconds. No breath found its way into his gaping mouth, then, just as suddenly, he sucked in a lungful of air. Curse it all, how long was that going to keep happening? The pure panic, like he was learning about Fred's death for the first time over and over again, like he hadn't already realized he would be alone now. Alone forever.
And there was the breathlessness again.
George gripped the ledge of the window, swaying from his night of being tucked away with one bottle of Firewhisky and one bottle of Black Ice Vodka. He wasn't sure if he was hung over or still drunk, so he continued to take regular swigs from each bottle as he watched the skies for his family to return. But what then? The stupid memorial service that his parents planned? How dreary. Fred wouldn't have wanted to be remembered that way. George wouldn't have wanted to be remembered that way. Well, that was partially a lie. The day did feel like a funeral for the both of them, and that was always how they thought they would go. Blasted to pieces by a failed experiment or poisoning themselves with one of their Skiving Snacks.
"Let's get out of here before the boring people arrive," George muttered, pushing away from the window and marching across his room to his wand. His knuckles were white against the handle, and the soles of his shoes squeaked against the floor as he spun around.
The shop's flat looked the same as it had when he and Fred and Lee locked themselves up there to do their radio show. He could even still feel the tingle of their mislocation spells that made it impossible for anyone to track their signal. Really, though, they were in the Weasley shop. If someone had wanted to find them, it wouldn't have been that hard. Good thing the Death Eaters sucked at recognizing voices.
A strong, toe-curling smell wafted into the lounge from the kitchen, all of Fred's Chilling Charms having disappeared along with him. Dammit, George couldn't breathe again.
He only glanced at their bedroom door, a shared room despite another empty one sitting just beside it. Merlin, sometimes he hated sharing a room with Fred. He snored louder than a Banshee screams. But his room at home had been too silent for him to sleep.
George's feet thudded against the stairs as he passed through the workshop and into the shopping area. The shelves towered over him, looming in the weak morning light. The shop felt abandoned. Everything still stacked on their shelves in perfect order but untouched. Not even a coating of dust.
What the hell was he doing here? This not-able-to-breathe thing was really starting to become a problem, and George didn't know what he was supposed to do about it. Fred was gone. He was gone. Gonegonegone. No more Gred and Forge, no more midnight trips to the workshop, no more Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Damn that apostrophe. It was going to take so much work to move it. If there even was a shop to still hold that name.
Honestly, what was George supposed to do? He loved this shop; he didn't want it to close. They had enough projects and in-progress ideas to last a few more months, maybe even years, but after that? Fred came up with ideas with speed and creativity and flourish, and George didn't know if he would ever be able to match that. They were a team, a team that was never supposed to be split up. This amazing business they'd created—that seemed so easy to maintain with their natural talents—now seemed imposing. Impossible. Not meant for one.
George settled back against the floor, not sure how he ended up down there but glad for the solid support of the ground. At least there was one thing in the world that would never let him down. While everything fell around him, he would always have something to fall down on as well.
The sunlight punctured through the morning darkness, cresting over the tops of the Diagon Alley shops and shooting into the windows. George turned his head away from the glaring light, squinting in the sudden brightness, and his nose brushed against a box on the lowest shelf.
He didn't want to see it. He didn't want to see it. He didn't want to see it.
George opened his eyes and found himself face-to-face with Fred's bloody fireworks. Fate really had it in for him today.
Fred had had an entire line planned out, and this box was only meant to be the beginning. George didn't even know much about it. This was Fred's line of products, Fred's passion, Fred's love.
Merlin, he loved fireworks. Absolutely loved them. Probably because they were just like him. Or them, George supposed. Firecrackers could have dozens of copies that looked the same on the outside, but once lit, they all made different hisses and spurts until they exploded. Fred would have been the extravagant ones, the loudest ones, the most colorful ones. Sometimes they hurt to look at or listen to, but everyone loved them. George, well, he guessed that he would be the fireworks now staring him in the eyes. The basic box. Supported by their more obnoxious brothers and never shining quite as bright. Always there, though.
He hated Fred. He hated him for dying, hated him for blazing into everyone's life and dying out in a passionate boom, hated him for being in every one of those bloody pictures so George felt like he'd died too.
Dammit, George Weasley was not dead.
He pushed himself up from the floor and grabbed a box of Fred Weasley's Basic Blaze Box. Fred wasn't the only one who could make a damn good firework.
The workshop glowed with light with a flick of George's wand, then the box popped open with a second swish. George dumped its contents out on his desk, the only empty surface in the room full of worktables, and glared at the whizz-bangs and whammy rockets. What rubbish. His brain was churning ideas at a slow, alcohol-induced pace, but he knew he could do better.
Once be picked up his wand, the next hour was a blur. He raided their entire fireworks supply, combining crackers and charms and colors until he'd created something only he could. Fred never could have planned this. A brand new display of their best creations all to showcase a new, unique, one-time-only firework. It would be fantastic.
George sunk to the floor, glancing down at his watch. The memorial service would be beginning by now, people swarming the tables and tents to gawk at photos of the twins. He could make it. He could show them. George Weasley was not dead.
And if he could pull this off, neither was the shop. If not for George, this place would have gone out of business when they were still only doing mail orders from their bedroom. He managed to keep this place stable in the face of Fred's instability.
Fred's ideas may have died with him, but George still was plenty capable on his own.
It wouldn't be the same. George couldn't expect it to be the same. But it would work. If this firework worked, then everything else would too. If this firework worked, he would even be able to see Fred's face again, if only for a flashing moment before he disappeared again. That bastard. That amazing, wonderful bastard.
I'm never gonna dance, again, the way I danced with you