Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or it's characters. We all know that. Thanks.
--
He woke up at the sound of his own screaming.
He rubbed his eyes quickly and frantically looked to the bed beside his.
Empty.
He heard someone on the floor above him getting up and moving around. Ever since the battle, George had moved back to The Burrow – hoping that, somehow, he would feel better here.
With his eyes still fixed on the other bed, George sat up looking at what used to be Fred's side of the room.
As promised, no one had changed it from the last time Fred had been there. All of his clothing was scattered on the bed, one shoe was kicked under the bed, while the other lay on its side closer to the door. The stack of old textbooks that he had kept as references were still stacked up by the window. The moonlight cast a soft light on the other half of the room.
George got up and walked over to Fred's old bed, taking one of Fred's old pillows and throwing it on his own bed. A small sigh escaped his lips as he looked from one bed to the other.
He heard a small knock on the door, "George, dear. Are you alright? I heard a scream." George opened the door and saw his mother in her green nightgown and matching slippers standing there with a worried expression on her face. He let her in.
"I'm sorry I woke you up, mum." George said quietly. He turned to his bed and lay down, pressing the side of his face into Fred's pillow. His mother looked at George, realizing the extra pillow he was laying on.
"George," she started, sitting on the edge of his bed, "you don't have to apologize, dear." She looked again to Fred's side of the room and back to the pillow George was laying on. "What happened in your dream, George?" She pet his head softly, hoping that her son would open up to her.
George closed his eyes and buried his face into Fred's pillow, trying his hardest to control his emotions.
"I was at the battle, mum," he started shakily. He didn't bother to turn to look at his mother. "And it was all happening again. I felt that feeling again," he stopped and tried to collect his thoughts. "That feeling I felt when I knew something was wrong. When I—" he stopped all together. Molly removed her hand from the side of George's face, putting it back in her lap. She looked at the other side of the room.
Empty.
George went on, "And I walked into the Hall, mum." He gasped lightly for a breath to continue. "It was exactly the same way it happened." He hugged the pillow tighter to his face, "I saw him again." His voice cracked. "I saw him just laying there." George fought his hardest not to cry over the memory and the dream, however, his immense heartache and guilt combined and took over him. He shook violently with tears, gasping for air.
"George," his mother started, trying her best to be the stronger of the two. "George." She was at a loss for words.
He gasped and went on, "Mum, I know we weren't prefects and," he hiccupped, "and I know we were always giving you a hard time," he coughed. "But…but…" he went on to mumble something that Molly could not understand. Molly began to cry at the sight of her son in such pain,
"George, I promise you," she whispered, tears staining her face. "he's just fine. He's in a better place." What else does one say in these situations? She believed it to be true, for Fred and George had never done any true harm to anyone. She fully believed, to the core of her being, that Fred was in a better place.
George looked up, revealing his tear-swollen eyes, "A better place?" he shook violently and sat up, looking his mother in the eye, "What's so much better about where he is than what he had here? Why is it only Fred who got to go to a better place, mum? I don't…" he coughed and cried, "I don't understand."
Molly wrapped her arms around her son, caressing his back just like she used to when George would be upset as a child. She did not even try to fathom how George felt. She remembered all the things she would say about the twins whenever someone asked about the pair:
Peas in a pod.
Inseparable.
Unbreakable.
She whispered in his ear, "It will be okay, George. Think of it this way," she sadly giggled, "If Fred were here, he would knock our heads together and tell us to stop acting like little girls."
George smiled weakly. His mother's attempt at cheering him up had only made him wish it were true. He waited for the hand on the back of his head pushing his head into his mother's. He waited for the laugh that would follow. Nothing.
"You should go back to sleep, George," his mother urged. "Get some rest, my dear." She kissed the top of his head, wishing that she could somehow fix the whole situation. "I love you."
George hiccupped, "I love you too, mum."
George closed his eyes and waited to hear Molly's footsteps above him. He buried his face in the tear-soaked pillow and hugged it closer to his face, as if the pillow was some sort of substitute for who he wanted to hug. He shook and shivered in his bed, wishing and praying to whoever would listen that someone or something could bring Fred back.
He looked up from his pillow, sobbing and shaking still, looking over to the other side of the room, hoping that his praying and wishing had, by some unknown force, had been answered. That Fred would be laying there, snoring amongst the clothing and other various things in his bed. That he would be half-falling out of his bed or that he would be mumbling in his sleep.
George looked up from his brother's tear-soaked pillow.
Empty.