(A/N): I, for one, am not satisfied with the early demise JKR gave Fred. It's just not right, you know? Fred and George…they weren't meant to be separated. So I'm here to right that wrong.

I'm reinventing. Tweaking some things. That means: in this story, Fred DOESN'T DIE. But you'll just have to read on to see what DOES happen!

This story contains TWINCEST. If you're not cool with that, I suggest you go ahead and hit the back button.

Disclaimer: JK owns it all, except this story…

1. In Memoriam

Nothing.

That was what George Weasley felt as he sat curled around himself on a secluded grassy hilltop in the fields around the Burrow, long freckled arms pinning his knees to his chest, chin resting flat on his angular, bony kneecaps. For the first time in his life he was utterly alone and now, knowing the eerie, half-there sensation of pure solitude, he knew why he'd always opted for Fred's company over isolation.

He didn't have a choice now.

The war was over and, as was cliché but mitigating, good had overcome evil, Harry had destroyed Voldemort, and the fighting was done. In the first hours after the victory it had felt so good to know that Fred's death was avenged, but the elation was fading now as it sunk slowly in that this was the end of The Twins. George could not, would not believe that there would be no more scheming with Fred in the late hours of night about new ideas for the joke shop, no more murmured conversations in the darkness of their room, no more Fred-and-George or Gred-and-Forge or however their close ones referred to them these days. George did not know how to be one person; he was not one person, he was half of a whole and it would always be so, even if the other half was no longer there beside him. He did not want to learn the art of individuality, he would keep up the spirit of defiance, he knew it would make Fred proud.

A soft, cajoling breeze played across George's face and he closed his eyes, let the tears that had been damming up escape from beneath his long red-gold lashes. He could feel Fred in the breeze, gentle as his kisses, light as his fingertips, but he saw his twin in everything now; there was nothing in the world that didn't spark some memory of his lost one. As for mirrors, George was torn between wanting to flee from his reflection and needing to stay in front of it, needing to know that simply by being he was keeping Fred alive. Some night he stood against the full length mirror in their room at the Burrow, pressing himself into it, pleading with his image to somehow transform into Fred, alive and smiling and warm under his fingertips, while other nights he tossed a blanket over the smudged chrome surface in inexplicable anger, afraid of what he might see should he look too closely. He felt like a puzzle with half the pieces missing, an incomplete sentence, unfinished. He had taken to wearing Fred's clothes and in fact was presently burrowed into one of the sweaters Molly had knitted for his twin, the one with the large canary-yellow F embroidered on the front. He was not coping well at all, but who would expect him to? He and Fred had been inseparable and now when he looked to his side there was nothing but empty space.

"George?"

It was Ron, all hesitation and uncertainty. As he sat down on the cool grass beside his older brother George turned his head slightly to show he'd heard.

"Hey, Ron."

Ron grimaced. That voice didn't belong to George; George's voice was mischievous and light and full of energy and vitality, whereas this quiet monotone was world-weary and defeated, melancholy and saturated with despair in its low sullenness. Different.

"Mum says it's time to eat," Ron said softly, knowing the response before it came, and sure enough:

"I'm not hungry."

Ron sighed.

"I know," he said gently, his eyes on George's emotionless face. "But you have to eat. It won't kill you to come inside and be with us for a change, either."

George lifted his head and stared out at the horizon, where the sun was slipping from the sky amidst marbleized tangerine clouds.

"I don't want to leave here," he said flatly. "I don't want to be with people. I can't go into our house without thinking about him."

"None of us can," Ron said quietly. "But it's home. You can't stay out here forever. And – maybe remembering isn't such a bad thing."

He wasn't sure where he was going with this; he knew he was rubbish at condolence through words, but all he knew was that every second more he kept speaking was one second less that he had to hear the painful, embittered rumble that was George's new voice.

George dropped his head back and gave a harsh bark of joyless laughter.

"You don't understand," he said simply. "Any of you. You don't know what it's like to wake up and know you're alone."

"He was my brother too," Ron reminded, and George finally looked at him. His eyes, once so alive and glittering, were cold and dead, circles of ice in his pale face.

"He was – is – my other half," George said simply, and Ron, not knowing what else to do, reached out and put a warm hand on George's thin shoulder, at a complete loss for words.

XXX

The house's silence was stifling, a breeding ground for repressed, unwanted memories, and George had fallen victim to his thoughts. He lay on his side in Fred's bed, clutching his twin's pillow to his chest, trying to stay locked in the moment. It was no use: recollections like scars flowed over him, presenting themselves to his mind's eye as though they were happening at that very instant, clear and sharp as photographs in his head. Every part of him ached with physical and emotional pain as he thought back – their first day at Hogwarts, in which Fred had slipped Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, a pouch of catnip filled with a potion to make her fur change color bright magenta; the first night they'd used the Maurader's Map to explore the whole of Hogwarts; their first Quidditch match – and George found himself half-laughing, half-sobbing as his memory took him, unbidden and uncontrollable, back to the night of their first kiss…

They had been thirteen and in their third year at Hogwarts. They'd had a detention with Snape earlier that night and it had run very late, so late, in fact, that they found themselves quite alone in the halls as they made their way back from the dungeons to Gryffindor Tower. The one thing that stuck out clearly in George's mind was the fact that it had been raining outside; the chill from the mist had seeped through the windows and into the corridors, under their clothes and into their very skin. That was part of the reason he and Fred had pressed so close together as they'd walked, to share body heat, but the other reason was the new strange closeness between them. They weren't sure what it was, but it was all-consuming, and they had been even more inseparable than usual lately.

George remembered walking along the hall that led to their common room, Fred's arm basically glued to his, their little fingers wrapped securely around each other's. They had stopped in a small alcove by the Fat Lady's portrait to stare out into the bleak dark night, veiled by a constant sheet of rain, and Fred had leaned his head on George's shoulder.

"George?" he'd said, in a tone that was oddly free of mischief.

"Yeah?"

"What is this?"

George had known instinctively that he'd been referring to the strange emotion blossoming between them and answered, quite knowledgably, "Dunno. Kinda like it, though."

"Me too." Fred had straightened up, turned to face George with a passionate expression on his face. "George?"

"Yeah?" George had looked expectantly at his twin, accustomed to Fred's unusual communication methods.

"Don't ever leave me, okay?"

"I promise."

And that was when it had happened. Fred had placed hesitant fingertips on George's cheek and George had brought his hand up to grip his twin's wrist and their lips had pressed together in a tender, slow kiss.

From that moment on they had become lovers, acknowledged that they were soul mates, and that had been that. There had never been any more question to their mutual status and no one had ever known about their covertly incestuous relationship. That fact was proof of their adept hiding skills.

Now as George thought back upon that monumental day he wondered why he had never thought to make Fred swear not to leave him as well. Perhaps it would have been smart. Perhaps it would have made all the difference.

The irony was cruel, unbearable. George couldn't understand why Fred had been stolen from him; it was unfair, they'd barely had any time together. He'd been so alive, so constant and stable…and he was all George wanted, all he would ever have…

He buried his face into Fred's pillow and breathed, the scent of him still soaked into the cloth, however faint. When he raised his head he was calm again and he knew what he was going to do. The idea had come as though someone had explicitly instructed him about his next move, and now that he knew he was eager to carry out his plan. It was too simple, an easy escape, a new resolution.

He rose from the bed and stole over to the dresser, upon which sat his wand; the clothes he'd been wearing earlier were laid out beside it. George pulled on his jeans and wrestled Fred's old sweater over his head before snatching up his wand from the desktop. Hastily but quietly he maneuvered around the clutter on the floor till he reached the closet, out of which he yanked his spare trunk. Then he turned to fact the pitch-blackness of the room.

He raised his wand.

"Pack," he ordered softly, and instantly all the essential items he'd been keeping here at the Burrow as opposed to the joke shop flew from the floor, the drawers, the dresser and closet into the open trunk lying on the ground. It wasn't much, but it was enough; he could get by on this for a few weeks. Everything else he owned was at the flat above Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and it was laughable to think of going back there now so soon after the loss of Fred; George knew he could not handle being at their private domain. Home, where there were memories and good times with the rest of the family as well as Fred, was bad enough: George seriously doubted he'd be able to take one look at the joke shop without losing his mind.

He flicked his wand and the trunk locked itself securely. He was about to bewitch it to follow him downstairs and outside the house to ensure a safe getaway (Apparating made such a loud and disruptive cracking sound; he had to be sure he could leave without the rest of the family waking up) when his mind fell randomly on Ron. Perhaps he should say goodbye to him; after all, Ron had made the biggest effort to reach out to George in the weeks after the tragedy. Admittedly, his attempts had been clumsy and uncertain, but they had been sweet, and George could not forget his younger brother's unusual kindness.

He made up his mind. Opening the bedroom door, he stole out into the eerie silence of the stairwell, then ascended the stairs to Ron's room, avoiding the creaky step just below the landing. He let himself in, crept over to the bed, watched Ron in his sleep for a moment, envious of the peace that was obvious in his brother's face. Then he perched on the side of the mattress and shook Ron gently awake.

"'S'matter?" Ron mumbled, groggy as he rubbed sleep's cobwebs out of his narrowed eyes. "'S wrong?"

"Nothing," said George soothingly. "Nothing's wrong. Shh, Ron, it's okay," he added, for Ron's face was the picture of alarm and he looked quite alert and jumpy now, ready to scramble out of bed if the need arose.

"You're okay?" Ron asked, waiting for George's nod of confirmation. When he got it, he relaxed back onto his pillows, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "So - what is it? Why are you here?"

"I came to tell you I'm leaving," George said softly, readying himself for the storm of protest that was bound to come. Sure enough, Ron sat upright again, questions in his face along with the worry George had become accustomed to seeing on people's faces when they spoke to him lately. It had become rather tiresome; George was not porcelain-fragile and did not like being treated as such.

"What?" Ron exploded, and George shushed him, pressing him back down onto the headboard to quell his outburst. "Leaving? Where? You can't –"

"Don't say that," George commanded gently. "I can and I will. This place – our room – it's killing me, Ron. I can't stay here. If the pain doesn't drive me mad the memories will."

"But George," Ron whispered weakly. "Think of Mum. It'll drive her mad if you leave. It's bad enough, you know? She – we – can't afford to lose both of you." There was a plea in his tone, a helplessness that, emanating from Ron, was foreign. Usually if things weren't going Ron's way he used sarcasm and fury to portray false carelessness and this new subjection was unnerving.

Bitterly George turned away, gritting his teeth against the tears scraping their way up from his soul, and shook his head. "I could barely afford to lose one of us," he answered. "I can't be here anymore. I'm sorry, Ron."

Leaning over, he gave his younger brother a quick but emotional hug, stood up, and was halfway to the door when Ron called him back.

"You won't be gone forever, will you?" he whispered. "You'll come back?"

George hesitated.

"Eventually," he responded at last, and with a final mournful half-smile, he swiveled on his heel and left the room.

On his way past his and Fred's room he stopped briefly in the doorway to command his trunk to follow him down the stairs and out the front door, where the cool, soothing night air enveloped him like a new day, a fresh start. The moon was high in the sky, blanketing the world in its platinum-white pearly glow, and George raised his face to it, closing his eyes as a frisky wind teased through his hair, over his face. The world was his. He could go where he pleased.

He had a place in mind. There was a little hotel in Elephant and Castle that he'd seen one day when he'd been out shopping with his mother a long time ago. They had gone without Fred, who'd been home with kratchgamp, a horrible disease not unlike measles, and George could recall asking his mother about the interesting-looking inn across the street from the restaurant they'd been leaving. It had reminded him of a medieval castle, complete with a moat, drawbridge, and high, round turrets that scraped the clear blue semicircle above their heads.

"Oh, that's The Scaly Dragon, dear, it's very high-class," Molly had told him. "Your father took me to stay there a very long time ago, before any of you were born."

"How come the Muggles don't notice it?" George had asked curiously; it was hard for him to believe that the hotel could escape scrutiny from anyone.

"It's got enchantments around it," Molly had explained patiently. "When the Muggles look at it they see an abandoned apartment building, or some such thing."

"Sort of like the Leaky Cauldron," George had deduced.

"Sort of," Molly had agreed, and they had moved on.

Now, as George stood contemplating the heavens, looking for a shooting star, an abnormal light, anything Fred might do to give him a sign of wellness (despite himself he'd been doing this a lot recently), he made his choice. He would go to The Scaly Dragon and shut himself off for a few days, as long as it took to piece together several shards of his sanity again. Then he would go from there.

He glanced over his shoulder at the Burrow, dark and absolutely still silhouetted lopsidedly against the backdrop of sky. Then he seized the handle of his trunk, concentrated hard, and turned on his heel, his ice-blue eyes squeezed shut. When he opened them again, he was standing in the palatial lobby of The Scaly Dragon.

This was it. The beginning of solitude. He felt Fred's conspicuous, painful absence like a ragged wound, a gaping void, but as for the rest…no. Life in Ottery St. Catchpole was over, everything he'd had in the world was gone, and he'd no regrets. This was a blank page, his and only his, and that should have made him feel a fierce soft of elation, but what was anything if he couldn't share it with Fred?

George walked up to the desk to check himself in, wearing his overused mask of ease and normalcy and composure. Only when he was safely locked into his room did he crumple against the wall and howl his angst to the jet-black echo of the room, the bottled emotion inside him erupting with the force of a volcano, the relief of letting go the closest thing he'd felt to good since Fred had died.

XXX

(A/N): Okay, now that we've got all the depressing stuff out…next chapter soon!