Disclaimer: I'm not JK Rowling. Therefore, I own nothing except the plot.
Author's Note: This is my first fanfic... Please review!
"All he does is lock himself up in his room," Ginny said, staring at the scar-lined face of her older brother, Bill.
"He doesn't talk anymore, unless he has to. Only one word answers," said Arthur.
"Sometimes…" Ginny started hesitantly, "I mean it was Fred, and sometimes… I wonder if he's gone mad," Solemn faces darkened the room. Molly's sobs were the only sound that disturbed the grim silence.
"He's not the same. None of us can get through to him. He refuses to see anyone other than family,"
"He doesn't even want to see Lee Jordan," Ginny added.
"What can we do?" Molly asked. Red hair, tangled and limp, obviously unbrushed, hung in front of her tear-stained cheeks. Her face was blotchy and her red, puffy eyes stared at her family with a desperate hope.
"A…mental healer?" Ginny bit her lip and glanced at her parents, questioningly.
"No. A mental healer would be taking this a bit too far. He's not insane," I think… Charlie said. A mournful quiet descended upon the Burrow. Fred's loss had been sudden, unexpected.
"In the mornings, sometimes I think it's their laughter waking me up, like it used to," Ron said, "I see him in my nightmares,"
"I see him in the mirror every morning," George murmured.
The family snapped their heads towards the remaining half of the duo, who stood on the top of the stairs, looking down at their frozen forms, emotionless. They stared at him, eyes wide with surprise, brimming with sorrow, guilt, and a dimming hope. They held their breath collectively.
He turned around and headed back upstairs.
The air still crackled with magic. It was heavily coated with fear and adrenaline. The last screams of the dying, reverberated in George's one good ear. He glanced around the room, now filled with the injured and dead. The memories of the flashes of lights blinded him momentarily. Triumphant screeches and pained yells. The stench of burned meat in the air, the sharp, metallic smell of blood. A high, cold voice. Voldemort's voice, wormed their way into George's mind. Though this, this was real. He wasn't in the heat of the Battle anymore. He shook the involuntary reminisces away, and strained to listen, "…continue to resist me you will all die," George's eyes wandered around the room. Where? His voice boomed in the Hall, washed over the living, curled around the deceased mockingly. George's searching gaze snagged on red hair on reflex.
He saw Ginny, red hair plastered to a sweaty, red face. Bawling. Her eyes were pressed shut, her body shook as she wailed and shuddered with forceful sobs. Charlie appeared next to her, tears falling freely down his face. George stood still a moment, stunned. Charlie, his callous, rough brother. The one that had held bravely against dragons. Charlie never cried. He saw them then. He saw the rest of this family, gathered around something, gathered around a body. He started to run towards them. Who?Ron? The cold, high pitched voice in the background was just a bothersome whine in his ear. He shoved other survivors to the side as he ran. Molly lay herself on the body, weeping into dark clothes. The horrible realization was numbed by a stubborn disbelief. The face was his own. And now there was no ground under his feet. No sky over his head. The sun had been plucked out of the sky. The darkness was raining down around him, coating him in shadows. He was lost. Surrounded by echoes, and the echoes were fading. It was senseless. Impossible and absurd.
I'm still running, he realized as he barreled into Percy's side. Percy gasped in surprise, but George just stumbled towards his other half. His face was pasty, his usually mischievous blue eyes hidden. There were faint remnants of a grin on his face. A faint whisper next to George's ear, "He died laughing." George caressed his cheek. Soft. His fingertips tingled with the icy feel of his brother's corpse. He sunk down, kneeled beside his head.
1…2…3…
"…have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity…" the cold voice continued.
9…10…11…
"George?" Molly croaked, as she watched his unblinking eyes. Silent and unmoving.
19…20…21…
George ran his fingers through the red hair.
29…30…31…32
Thirty-two.
He counted once more. Thirty-two. He ran his hands over the smattering of freckles on the pale face. Not thirty-six.
He was mildly surprised to discover it was Fred and not himself lying dead on the cold, stone floor.
It hurt to see his face every morning. But he couldn't keep away. A jagged, stunning pain in his chest for a few moments of daydreams and reminisces. His face this morning was as tired as it was every day. He grinned at himself in Fred-like impishness. But the ear, the hole in the side of his face, stared at him grimly, unimpressed with his charade.
So George turned his face to the side, and just pretended.
"Hey Gred,"
"Hey Forg-" His voice broke, "Hey… Fred"
Fred frowned at him bemusedly. "What? What is it? You look like somebody's died," George's breath caught. Fred's lips quirked upwards, "What? Did Aunt Muriel finally croak? Don't worry about it George, the old toad had to go sometime. Though this will have some unpleasant repercussions. Even beyond the grave she drags us into some boring, horrid affair with old fogies crawling all over the place. Suppose we'll have to…brighten the gloomy day. What say you about some Weasley Whiz-Bang-"
"Yeah," George offered a weak smile.
"What?" Fred paled slightly, "Don't tell me we tested a product on her? That's why she…?"
"No, no. It's just that mum's getting all emotional downstairs about…her…death," George struggled with the end of the sentence. Fred rolled his eyes.
"Don't take mum too seriously. She cried over Uncle Billius refusing a plate of her pasta, George. Aunt Muriel wasn't even that close to her. In fact I bet you five galleons that by this afternoon she'll be ranting at dad like usual,"
"Over some silly-"
"muggle contraption-"
"or unwise decision-"
"our dear dad-"
"is prone to make."
"It's inevitable," they chirruped. Then grinned at each other. George's smile quickly faded. Moistness crept into his eyes. His face turned a light pink. He tried to ignore the sting, but the warm water bubbled over and crawled down his cheeks. He leaned his forehead against the glass.
"Don't cry," Fred said.
George dragged a finger down the mirror's cool surface, trying to wipe away the tears.
Vibrant colors and the sound of laughter surrounded him. The occasional explosion burst through the store accompanied with the surprised squawks and screeches of the customers. The atmosphere was bright, cheery, and George felt it couldn't possibly be real. The future troublemakers riffling through the store's new and improved products didn't bring a sense of fulfillment or joy. He couldn't smile without somebody to smile back at him. Someone with an identical look of glee.
He fingered the edge of the sleeve of his blinding orange tux, as he tried to imagine his other half standing beside him with a welcoming grin to the entering floods of people. Today was special for his shop after all, one month anniversary of the defeat of Voldemort, everything half off. He forced a smile on his face. A woman approached him with an answering one.
"You're the owner of the shop, right?"
The answer was out of his mouth before he could think it through, "We both are," He could've sworn he heard Fred's voice alongside his as they slipped past his lips.
"Oh?"
Don't you see- Fred? Where was Fred?
"The other me-"
Standing here- There again, finishing his sentences.
"So very near-"
"Are you blind, woman?" They finished together with a look of incredulity towards the blonde. She sent them a startled, confused look and backed away into the crowd with a hurried stride. George could feel his twin's presence next to him, could see the victorious grin spreading across Fred's visage. Something leaped to life within him for the first time since he saw the body. Joy. Delight. Mischievous intent.
He couldn't help but grin back.