A/N: This originally began as a composition titled "Six," through the eyes of Ginny, describing each of her six brothers, and the one that she lost. However, it didn't seem to be going places, as I so hoped it would.

Instead, you get this little one-shot which randomly came to me out of thin air. I hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: If I were J.K., I wouldn't have killed so many in the seventh book! She owns them all.

One-Half

I remember when we were young, and Mum used to make our lunches every day. She would always slice the crust off our sandwiches, just how we liked them, pour two glasses of ice-cold milk into two identical glasses, and set the plates and cups side-by-side, at our two indistinguishable chairs.

There had only been one rule at lunch in our household: that each of us could only have one component, inside the bread, to make up our sandwiches. Mum believed things would become messy if we mixed and mashed different sandwich fillings, and made new concoctions.

Of course, you and I were always against the rules.

You always had peanut butter and I, jelly. Mum usually remained in the kitchen with us as we ate, but certain times, she had other business to attend to around the house, and would leave us to ourselves.

Munching down on my sweet grape-coated bread one day, I recall you turning to me and saying, "Hey, Bro, wanna try something really cool?"

Those days, I didn't always really know what your idea of "cool" was – but it usually had consequences.

You'd once told me that it would be "cool" to try and fly without a broomstick…and I'd broken my arm.

Another time you'd told me that it would be "cool" to try on Mum's prized earrings. I'd gotten a major scolding ever for that.

On a separate occasion, you'd told me that it was "cool" to try the delicious combination of mashed potatoes and asparagus. It took me several days to get the horrifying taste out of my mouth.

Needless to say, I was hesitant at you offer to do another "cool" thing.

"What kind of cool thing?" I'd asked.

You didn't answer, merely broadened your grin, and said, "Here, give me the top slice of your bread."

I reluctantly did so, and watched as you removed you're the top piece from your own sticky peanut-buttered sandwich, which you then handed to me, blue eyes shining.

"Now place that on top of your other jelly piece and I'll put this on top of my peanut butter bit," you sang cheerfully. I had looked at you dubiously.

"I don't know if –" I had begun, but you quickly cut me off.

"Just trust me."

So, I did. After all, you were my brother, and I figured that if you steered me wrong one too many times, eventually, you'd have to lead me somewhere that was right.

So, I took a bite, and I've never regretted it since.

It was on that day, that you taught me that certain things just go together, and over the years, I'd learn of more and more.

Things like peanut-butter and jelly, Ying and Yang, bread and butter, coats and ties, and fish and chips just naturally went together.

You'd taught me something, Bro – a lesson that was so much more than swapping halves of two sandwiches.

You taught me that two halves, no matter how different they may be, can always make a whole.

It's my Wedding Day, now, Bro, and you should be the one standing next to me as Best Man, but ickle-Ronniekins will have to do for now.

I'm only a half now, Bro, and that will never change, but I will heal in time. When in doubt, just laugh it off, you used to tell me.

And you know I will, because we are Fred and George – Gred and Forge.

We're two halves of a whole.

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