Disclaimer: Harry Potter copyright J.K.Rowling.
WARNING: CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR DEATHLY HALLOWS! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!
Edit: "Soundtrack" now listed on my profile.
He stood where the heavy doors to the Entrance Hall had once been, now merely a pile of rubble and ash beneath his feet. Stones, wood, and bodies lay strewn before him, crushing the dark grass of the formerly magnificent lawn. It was no longer a lawn, however, as it was so much a battle field. Faceless and wandless, the bodies of friends and enemies alike stared blankly up at the starry sky above, his only company as the night of an ageless war faded into the dawn of a new beginning.
George Weasley had never felt more alone.
The joyous chatter issuing from the Great Hall was a low buzz by the time it reached his ears, muted by the stone walls that stood in its way, and by his sorrow that was already so deafening. He did not think he could bear the sound of laughter; that had once been their game, a game with two players. Now that one player was out, there was little point in playing on his own; he would never win.
There was a shuffle behind him, and George reluctantly tore his gaze away from the depressing scene before him. As his blue eyes met a pair of vibrant green ones, a twisted pang of jealousy tore through his heart. Harry Potter had been one of the last to see Fred alive, and for that he was eternally envious. The younger man seemed awkward as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again, yet determined not to look away.
"I'm sorry, George," Harry said softly; his voice was not rough, and George suspected this was not the first time he had spoken such words. Harry swallowed, and George watched his Adam's apple bob in his throat.
"For what?" George's voice was a higher pitch than usual, coarse and hollow. He had not spoken since the news of his brother's death had first made itself known.
"For... What do you mean, what for?" Harry sounded somewhat angry, his eyebrows bushing together above his nose as he stared across at George. Idly, the latter recalled a time when Harry had been shorter, a time when teasing him ran with little threat of retaliation. Those times were gone, however; George doubted that he would ever tease again. "If I had just given myself up, this wouldn't have happened. The castle wouldn't be in ruins, and Fred-"
"And Fred and I would have been angry at you for being such a coward." George's words cut like ice, and Harry closed his mouth. This silence did not last long, and soon enough he was speaking again.
"It's my fault he's dead," Harry began. "My fault that you-"
"Shut up, Potter," George growled. His fists curled at his sides, his stomach whirling with anger, perhaps the first real emotion he'd felt in hours. "It isn't your fault. It's his."
"George, it wasn't-"
"I SAID SHUT UP!" George bellowed, and before he had time to think, Harry found himself staring up at a spinning world of stars, George looming above him, a solitary fist trembling before him. George moved away, marching to a fallen pillar and placing himself upon it. Perhaps it was minutes, or maybe it was hours; one way or the other, Harry stood before him yet again.
"... Sorry," he whispered, staring at the ground. George did not reply. Instead, he stared over Harry's head, at the dark trees rising in the distance like jagged spikes spearing the sky.
"Fred knew what he was getting into," George said at last, his voice strained and constricted. "We all did..."
When they were younger, people used to ask them what it was like to have a twin. He and Fred would merely glance at one another, and then shrug, for they had never known what it was like not to have one. George had felt both ends of the spectrum; he had had a twin, and now it felt as if half of him were missing. Well, no; he was all there, every bit of him, from the ginger hair on his head, to the slightly webbed toes of his feet which, up until his recent loss of an ear, had been the only way to tell the twins apart. But inside... he wasn't sure what had been Fred's thoughts, and what had been his own. Was it Fred that had dumped the cake on Aunt Muriel's head last spring, or had he been to the one to slip a canary cream into Ron's pumpkin pie?
No one would ask him what it was like to be a twin anymore. Very few would know that he had ever been one. He would tell them that he was George Weasley, and they would all laugh, for surely if there was one twin, there had to be another. He would tell them that Fred had died, and their mirth would die on their tongues. They would hurry away, and never mention the name Weasley again. But maybe it was better that way, George thought, closing his eyes as a chilly breeze kissed his face; maybe it was better to forget...
"He was joking when he died," Harry said suddenly. George slammed back to reality and opened his eyes, staring side-long at Harry with a piercing gaze the latter did not think him capable. "Something about haven't had heard Percy crack a joke since..."
"Since we had dragon pox," George whispered. He could remember only all too well. It had been during Christmas holiday, Percy's first year at Hogwarts. The twins had contracted dragon pox, and their mother insisted the rest of the family stayed away. But Percy wouldn't hear of it, and snuck in with his younger brothers, making them laugh harder than they had all year. But something changed between Christmas and the summer holidays. Percy returned, but not as the brother the twins had known, and that, perhaps, was when their merciless teasing had begun...
"He would want you to laugh, George," Harry said.
Then why had he left him with nothing but tears?
Harry stood, slowly making his way back to the Great Hall. He had offered what few words he had, and that would have to be enough. Several long minutes passed, in which George sat still, staring up to the sky, mouthing his brother's name again and again. If he could trade, George knew he would in a heartbeat. At last he rose from his solitary seat, trudging through the sea of ruins and back into the castle. Gathered beside Fred, Tonks, and Lupin were his family and friends. Surrounded by the warmth of the torchlight, and the familiarity of so many people, George felt more alive than he had been in hours following his brother's fall.
As he approached the group, a path appeared as others allowed him through. George paused beside Fred's lifeless body, staring down at his face, his own face, at the faint smile still tugging his empty lips. In that moment he knew that things would be all right; he would never be entirely whole again, but life would go on. It was okay, he realized, to smile.
And George began to laugh.