Me: Ahh! What is that terrible voice that's talking in my head!? It hurts! Get out you ugy little thing! stop taking over my brain!

Fred: ...right she wouldn't know Muse yet.

Muse: I am not ugly! Or terrible!

Fred: Calm down. She's not herself

Muse: Well, kinda, she is. Whether I'm ugly or not has been an ongoing argument.

Me: I hate it! I hate the little flea!

Muse: Well that's actually a new one. I've never been called a flea before...

Fred: Whoa Kara... settle down...you have amnesia. I'm gonna fix it for you, K?

Me: Really...?

Fred: really.

Me: OK, but don't-

Muse: *hits deranged writer over the head with a crowbar*

Fred: That should do it. Even if its a little overkill. Now *takes out wand*

Muse/The Flea: Have you ever done this before?

Fred: No.

Muse: Cool!

Fred: Cranium reparo!

George hated words. They were so complicated, and he hated trying to express himself that way, because it didn't work for him. His words got strung up and torn, so they were never a way for him. No. He hated words.

But art he could manage. It was something he understood. The talent that was born after the war was over. The one time expressing himself had become a problem was then. After the war.

The curves and the dips his pen made, they brought out angry pictures. Fred's death. The explosion. A falcon tearing at the remains of a tiny field mouse. The ocean waves, bearing down on a small fishing boat. Almost all the time they were angry. His art was normally very angry.

But then they were sad too. Sad little dips and turns. Fred's coffin. The rain on a window pane. A lonely tree in the fog.

"Hey George" It was Bill. George put down the charcoal pencil and sighed, exasperated. He had thought Bill had given up a long time ago, but apparently that wasn't it. But George wished he would.

"Bill." The words came out bitter, because unlike George, Bill was able to move on. And George hated that. He hated how his family was able to move on from Fred. Didn't they love him? Didn't they love their brother? Their son? If they did, George couldn't see it.

They just went on with their normal activity's as if nothing had happened.

"Um... there's a Quidditch game in twenty five minutes, down at the Den. Do you... do you wanna come?" His voice sounded hopeful, as if he expected George to finally crawl out of the dark abyss he had lingered so long in.

The dark abyss that he now knew as home.

"Ron is coming and so is Dad. Heck, Charlie took the weekend off just to come down and watch the game. It's kinda a guy's night out thing." George closed his eyes, and let his head fall back against the wall irritably. So that was their play. To draw him out. To surround him and force him into something he wasn't ready for. So soon after that. After... after what happened.

Bill stood uncomfortably in the silence, "George?"

"No." George answered as kindly as he could, trying not to let the bitterness, and the burning take his voice.

Bill sighed unhappily, "Dad said if you said no, he told me to tell you that you need to get over Fred. You need to move on, George. Mourning him endlessly isn't going to free you. It won't do any thing. You can't move on if you just stay in your apartment looking at Fred's old things, or sitting at his grave talking to someone who just isn't going to talk back." Bill looked at him pleadingly, "Please, just come to the game with us, it will help.

George ignored him. Bill could say nothing to change his mind. He just wanted him to forget Fred

How could they? Didn't they care for him too? Didn't they care for Fred? How could they be over him, just like that? It was wrong, and George hated it. Every time they made a move to help him move on, it burned him. He would take a Crucio before this, if he had the choice. He would take a Crucio hundreds, even thousands of times, if he could only bring Fred back. Or even trade places with him. Nothing would help him. Nothing could help him. Excepting Angelina.

Oh, look, Bill left, tired of trying. And that was OK. They all did that. Every time. Only Angelina understood.

George went back to his picture. He wasn't sure what it was yet. At the start he almost never knew. His pencil would just move and he would be left with the finished works.

He liked the surprise in it. The way the end picture portrayed his feelings so well. His anger, his despair, depression, and sorrow. It was his channel of expressing himself. How he felt.

Sometimes though he drew portraits. Angelina, her hair like a halo against the green of the grass, her eyes free of the haunt that had come after the war.

Her eyes free.

Free.

You can't move on if you just stay in your apartment.

And Bill was right. He couldn't. Moving on took so much more than that.

He needed something else. He had known that for a while. He had just been confused, cause it wouldn't happen.

So maybe he could make it happen...

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was his chance to move on.

George knew he had to do.

His pencil made one final stoke before he finished, but George knew what the image was before he looked down.

It was a Phoenix, flying through the night sky.

Free

Me: What the heck...? Why does my head hurt? Muse? Did you take over again?

Muse: Why does she always assume its my fault?!

Fred: Cause it usually is.

Me: What happened?

Fred: We gave you amnesia, but I fixed you

Me: Muse! you gave me amnesia?!

Muse: No! Fred did!

Me: You lying little flea! *chases Muse out of the room

Fred: huh. Thats odd. I don't think she just remembered that. I guess that proves that Muse is a bloody flea.

Molly: Fred! Language!

Fred: I'm not Fred! I'm George!