On the day following the Battle of Hogwarts, everyone left standing seemed to walk about in a permanent state of shock. People spoke in whispers and heavy sighs punctuated their subdued conversations. Success was unlike anything they had imagined. There were no fireworks, banners or cheering crowds. There was only smoke and rubble and overwhelming grief. News of the dead had spread like wildfire across the castle and beyond, so that no Weasley could take more than ten steps without receiving condolences. Ginny was beyond listening. Ron had not let go of Hermione since the fighting stopped. Percy seemed to have aged a decade and could be spotted wandering through the ground floor in vain, as though he would find what he was looking for just around the next corner. In a desperate bid to stay busy and distracted, Charlie helped his old professors to assess damage in the castle. Bill and Fleur stayed by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's side for most of the day, though Bill's eyes would search his surroundings every few minutes as he tried to keep tabs on his younger siblings.
As for George, his eyes stung permanently with tears of frustration and his face was gaunt. He had left the castle in search of any place in the grounds that would not remind him of his best friend and brother, but everywhere haunted him. The Quiddich pitch, the lake, the whomping willow, everything he set eyes on had a memory attached. Eventually he found himself walking alongside the glasshouses where he and Fred had hexed their first Slytherin.
He reached for the door and for a moment, his heart leapt at the sight of his twin's face on the other side. But Fred's expression suddenly mirrored the ecstasy of his own and with a sick feeling in his stomach, George realised that he had been fooled by his reflection.
A noise in the glasshouse broke through his devastated reverie and he walked inside to see someone standing at the other end of the narrow building, surrounded by plant pot shards and clumps of compost. As she turned and saw him, Angelina's breath hitched in her throat and her eyes welled up. She and George locked eyes, and when he took a step towards her, she began to shake her head almost imperceptibly as her tears fell hot and fast. Neither one could decide how to react to the other and they stood that way as the minutes dragged by, until she closed her eyes and crumpled to the floor. Her sobs turned into a low keening wail and it tore through George's heart. He clenched his fists and struggled to put one foot in front of the other until he reached her and sank to the floor. Angelina's tears didn't slow, but she allowed him to grasp her hand in his and then held it tightly.
George had no idea how long he sat there with her, on the dirt floor. Somehow, this felt more natural to him than anything else he'd done since the explosion. He couldn't understand why everyone else was eating and talking and cleaning – what was the point? His life was over without ending and all he could remember was the goodness of Fred. Every positive thing in his life was linked to Fred. Every future plan he'd dreamed was tied up in Fred. For the first time in his life, George was alone and he couldn't bear it.
After a while, their wails became ragged breaths. Dusk penetrated the misted glass roof and something in George made him stand up. He tugged Angelina's arm until she rose too. Climbing over the debris on the floor, they numbly walked back in the direction of the castle.
Just inside the Entrance Hall, they stopped. There was no sound; most people had drifted off to find somewhere to lay their heads until morning. They would go their separate ways now, the Weasleys were staying in rooms near the Hospital Wing for the night and Angelina was headed to Gryffindor Tower. George inhaled deeply and let go of the hand he was still clenching. As he stepped away, Angelina opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words came and she just shook her head helplessly.
He completely understood. Words were useless.