On
He closes his eyes gently against the oncoming deluge of thoughts. His mouth drifts into a smile as he thinks of all the amazing places he's seen, all the wonderful people he's met, and he shoots the revolver. He laughs a final laugh which hangs coldly, lonely in the stony silence. His shoulders slump and the ghost of his easygoing character remains hanging limply in the damp air of his hovel. The ghost of his last laugh is etched into the thin lines of his face, stained crimson by the blood which covers the left side of his face and betrays the happiness which he exuded in the past.
He would have used a wand but he couldn't bring himself to betray his brother in that way. Fred died at the hands of another, so George would try the same. He used a muggle-crafted weapon to gauge some distance from the Wizarding world that stole his brother's future, so he'd give the muggle world the satisfaction of claiming the other twin.
His world turns black as he embraces the novocaine of death willingly, hoping to see Fred on the other side. His last words are choked and righteous but they fall on deaf ears. The world has no care for the shadow of a man, who sold jokes to children as a means to escape the broken feeling inside that started on that night.
"To die would be an awfully great adventure," he mutters, smiling grimly as his lids droop and he falls still, finally at peace with his sorrow.
...
He lies, broken on the floor of his room in the Burrow. The itchy rug has no purchase against his cold skin. Dignified in death with his token mischievous grin still in place, George is no more. He is in the intangible place between the living and the dead. While his body remains on the itchy rug in his room in the Burrow on Earth, his mind is transported to the ninth dimension.
It's clean, white and bathed in a brightness that stuns him, rendering him immobile as he notices the outline of a figure approach. As the outline defines itself, he recognises the face that is peering at him through the shocking whiteness.
He blinks, pinches himself then settles himself with staring at the mirror image in front of him. Except, the mirror image is not the same. The mirror image has both ears, the one freckle that was always out of place and a look of calmness that is the complete opposite of his twin. They stare at each other for a full five minutes, neither one wanting to break the perfection of the moment when two brothers become one again. George has been restored to full health in this foreign place. He feels rejuvenated, strong and he feels as though the lead weight that had been oppressing his shoulders has finally lifted. Fred only smiles, glad that his long wait is over; glad that he won't have to sit alone, wishing for his partner-in-crime to crack jokes with. Laughing has been almost depressing as it's fallen on deaf ears for so long. The lack of someone to share happiness with has been strange, and Fred is glad to finally be free of his loneliness. He breaks the silence with a chuckle.
"Hey," he says, and George smiles. He is happy to hear that voice that's so similar to his, but with slight changes in the intonation of some words.
"Hey," George echoes. This is the way it's always been, the easy jokes and smiles. Falling into the easy pattern he can't help but feel that the last five years hasn't happened. Fred is the same as ever and George doesn't care that the light is hurting his eyes; he doesn't care that he's just been through hell; he doesn't care that he's up a creek with no paddle, that he has no idea where he is or what he's doing. All he cares about is the fact that Fred is there, at long last, and that things are finally feeling ok.
As George begins to focus on his surroundings as well as his brother, a few things become clear, as if he's put some glasses on. Shapes make themselves out and he sees them become more defined, like they're now in high definition. Now he thinks about it, he can see the first muggle train station he ever went to. The cleanliness and emptiness is unnerving, but he can still recognise the shape of the buildings and the unmistakable train tracks where journeys begin and end. As he focuses, he can make out shadows.
Strange, he thinks, that we're not alone. It's so easy to get lost in his brother, to reminisce every joke they've shared, that he keeps on thinking that they're utterly alone in this foreign place. Fred, it seems, is a lot calmer than him, as if he knows exactly where they are and what must be done.
George looks at his arms, expecting to see the scars that he never quite let fade but is stunned to find a pale canvas of intact skin, stained only by freckles. He notices the beauty of clean arms and resolves to never stoop to that place again. He knows that, having been reunited with his best friend, he'll never need the physical outlet to express his pain again. It just felt at times as though the mental pain became too much, he needed the physical pain as a reminder that everything was relative, that he was still alive, that he was strong enough to bear it. The pain in his arms wasn't as bad as the pain in his head but it allowed him to escape, if only for a while. He promises himself to never go back there and to talk to someone if his head got that bad again. He finds that he doesn't need to force a smile. With his brother there, it comes naturally and he breaks into a wide grin, leaving his difficult past behind him as everything becomes fleetingly ok.
After sharing jokes about their five years apart and George dishing the dirt on their old school friends, George finally asks the most burning question in his mind.
"Where are we?" The look of puzzlement on his face causes Fred to burst out into a fit of hysterics. The seriousness of George's unnerving predicament is lost in the joking nature of his twin. He gives Fred space to calm down, busying himself with taking in the pristine whiteness surrounding him.
"I dunno," Fred replies. "Well, what I mean is, it's different for each person. For me, it's always been Dad's garage. I've waited in the same bloody shed for five years straight, waiting for you to turn up," he states, disgruntled.
"Bloody hell," George exclaims, eyeing his best friend with wonder. "So what happens next?" he asks, genuinely curious to find out his predicament.
"I dunno," Fred says again, then elaborates as he thinks about it. "Dumbledore came along when I first arrived. I was still pissed about the whole dying thing but he helped me to calm down and sort out the mess inside my head. Well, as much as Dumbledore can sort things. He mostly spouted profuse crap that seemed like it should make more sense than it did. I guess he's just a genius though."
"Sure, sure," George assents, waiting for the confusing ringing to stop invading his head.
"So, from what I gather, we can just board a train or hop on a broomstick, whatever we feel like. He didn't say where it would take us, only that we'd move on." Fred says. He shoots a smile at his brother, hoping to put him at ease as he knows how scary and confusing this can be.
"And what if we don't want to go on, what if we want to stay here?" He asks, hoping Fred will know the answers he desires.
"Well, we can do what I did, we can wait. But I assure you, the real adventure is over there, wherever there may be. I just hope it's beautiful, hope it's worth the hassle of getting there."
"S'ok, Fred. Even if it's not, we'll still be together and that's got to count for something, right?" George knows, as he says the words with liberating finality, that they are true.
The two boys hold hands, the greatest of all companions there ever were, and take one step closer to their final destination.
"Let's go raise hell there, wherever there may be," George says, an echo of his twin.
"Together," Fred declares.
They go forth, knowing they'll end up there but for the moment content that they're moving on. Their token easy grin is etched across both identical faces and the gleam in both of their eyes has been replaced. Bad memories of their years apart retreat, replaced instead by exciting plans for the future. The twins are reunited at last, and they part hand in hand with death, the third musketeer of their party. They smile all the way, sharing their jokes and their stories naturally and brilliantly.
All is well.