The war was over. That was good, right? It was, it definitely was; it was probably the best event to occur in at least the last hundred years of wizarding history and yet George couldn't bring himself to feel even the smallest hint of happiness.
Fred was gone. Fred was gone. Gone where? When was he coming back? Why wasn't he beside him right where he was supposed to be? George's brain refused to accept it, he simply wasn't capable of accepting it let alone processing it. After that one moment he'd first looked at his brother's lifeless body and felt the most excruciating, desperate agony he'd ever felt in his life he hadn't been able to understand anything. It was as if his body had switched off his ability to feel or to think for what he'd find if he did would be too much for him to take.
He'd certainly felt then, then when he'd seen the ghost of a smile that didn't reach glazed over brown eyes, Fred's last smile, and he'd known he'd never smile again. He'd felt so strongly and so much, the bitter loss, the agony, the burning love, the unbridled rage at the world that'd dared rob him of his twin. He'd felt so strongly that he was sure he couldn't possibly contain it in his body and he'd be split in two by it.
But now there was only numbness, nothingness, emptiness. George's cheeks were still wet with tears, proof that seconds (minutes, years, hours–time was washing right over him along with everything else) ago he had been able to feel. He was supposed to feel, be upset, be hysterical like all those around him were not untouched like some soulless monster. Maybe he was soulless now, maybe his and Fred's souls were connected and his had perished along with his brother's. It made sense really.
Somehow, it became dinner time, Ginny gently tugging at his sleeve "George, they're providing food in the hall. Mum sent me to fetch you." George frowned slightly as he took in his sister's appearance. She looked far more put together than he remembered, still grief stricken of course but there was a fierce strength there now where there'd once only been hopelessness. She was wearing new clothes, too, a large, shapeless jumper he was sure she didn't own before.
George opened his mouth to respond but only a choking noise came out. For some reason, however, Ginny's face seemed to light up at his attempted response. He cleared his throat and tried again "I-I," he cut off to clear his throat again "…n-not hungry." he managed, his voice hoarse like he'd been crying or screaming for a long time. It was true, he realised, he wasn't hungry. The thought of letting any food even enter his mouth sickened him. But mainly he simply didn't have the strength to sit amongst familiar faces, to continue with life when his life had really ended the second Fred's heart had stopped beating.
Ginny frowned, worry crossing her features "George…" he winced slightly at that, before… this he'd been able to count on his fingers the number of times he'd been addressed by his name alone "You said that all the other times we've asked. You haven't eaten for days now, you must at least try. At least come and talk to us. It doesn't have to be about…" her breath caught in her throat for a moment, tears starting to pool in her eyes "About y'know, just talk about something. You can't isolate yourself like this, you're making yourself ill!"
Ginny fixed him with a pleading look. George blinked in surprise: all the other times? Days? Ginny must be confused or perhaps he'd misunderstood her, they couldn't have possibly have been here for days and he didn't remember ever having been asked to a meal before. Still, not wanting to make a scene he just nodded and followed her silently. If Ginny noticed the way he stumbled when he stood she didn't say anything.
Ginny was worried; incredibly worried. George wasn't okay. Well, of course he wasn't, none of them were, but George was particularly not okay. It was totally understandable, after all he'd lost his twin. Ginny couldn't imagine how positively awful poor George must be feeling, she was absolutely grief stricken to have lost Fred, as were they all, and Fred was only another of her many older brothers. That sounded awful but she didn't mean to say that Fred had been insignificant or unloved or that his loss wouldn't be a wound that she was sure would never heal for any of them. It was just that none of them were as close to Fred as George was… had been. In fact, Ginny was pretty sure it was actually impossible for two people to be closer than Fred and George were.
Poor, poor George, she thought to herself as she walked to go get him. She really hoped George would say yes to food, she couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten or socialised or slept or gotten his wounds tended to or anything else that was vital to being alive. Everyone knew he was wasting away like this but no one was really doing anything. Because what was there to do for one boy out of hundreds; who were all suffering, all mourning, all who didn't know how to continue; aside from giving him food, water and blankets like everyone else. Ginny could see where they were coming from she supposed but surely no one wanted a single speck of blood more shed after all of this, surely no one wanted to see another life lost. And that's just how serious she thought this was, George looked like someone who might do something they probably wouldn't live to regret.
The thought made a most awful feeling overcome her body, the fact that anything could still make her shudder after everything she'd been through was quite frankly surprising. But the thought of losing George was too much to bear, the thought that George might commit sui– no. No. He wouldn't, that was just her mind being morbid after everything that she'd experienced. Still, her stride became quicker, a sudden need to see her brother overcoming her.
And there George was; knees held tightly to his chest, half buried in his knees with just enough poking out for his eyes, which were a puffy red and glazed over, to be seen. He hadn't changed position at all since she'd last seen him. They'd all collectively agreed that no one would be left alone, even if they wanted to be, since it was far easier to take care of each other than themselves. They'd left George very momentarily alone, though, to check on food as George had stopped responding a while ago and probably wouldn't appreciate being carried around. Mum had initially freaked out and called for medical help but they'd been told that George was most likely fine, that zoning out was a common symptom of grief and stress and had been instructed to seek further medical attention if he continued to remain unresponsive. The building was full with medical help stations. The medical help stations were full with people.
Ginny approached George cautiously. What if he didn't respond? At first he'd had lapses of talking almost normally, as if he was in some sort of shock and his brain was pointedly ignoring the lack of a certain ginger, joking companion. Mostly, though, he'd been crying in about every way possible. When Charlie had been in charge of looking after George he'd started screaming desperately, crying so loud and so soulfully it was sure to make anyone who heard it feel as if a dementor had decided to stroll by. Charlie had pulled his little brother into his arms, running his hands gently through the heartbroken boy's hair as he cried. He always had had a soft spot for the twins. It was actually a really sweet, adorable sight in a tragic sort of way. Kind of like seeing an owl chick dead on the ground who'd tried to fly a bit too early. Ginny shivered, her mind really was morbid nowadays.
To her absolute relief, not only did George respond but he agreed to eating, something he desperately needed. Even in the post-warzone George stood out as looking malnourished. Ginny bit her lip, trying to resist the urge to help George walk when he stumbled which may scare him off, as she hoped that this small gesture from George was a sign of better things to come. She pointedly ignored the voice inside her that said nothing would ever be the same again and that this was only the beginning.
George was shaking. Not a single inch of any limb seemed to be spared. He didn't really know why, maybe it was cold in here. He couldn't tell, numbness possessing his body, pretending to be protecting him but instead draining him of what it meant to be human. He wasn't even grieving Fred's death, what type of monster wouldn't cry? Fuck, he was disgusting. He deserved to be the dead one. Fred…dead? … No. Some part of him must know that it was ridiculous but he still refused having no argument, no reason but still refusing to understand it. It couldn't be true.
Somehow he was sitting at a table with his family (how could it be family without Fred?). When had he gotten here? He must have spaced out on the walk. They must have been talking to him, how rude of him not to respond but it was so hard to understand what was being said and what was wanted from him. Words refused to register; maybe he didn't have the concentration to listen, the swirling crescendo of pure chaos in his mind too distracting, maybe he was having hearing problems after losing an ear then listening to so many explosions, maybe he'd simply stopped caring enough.
"–orge? George, sweetheart, you have to eat. I know you mightn't have an appetite but you just have to make yourself, it'll get easier once you start. Okay?" His mum was gently holding his face and looking into his eyes, the cold touch distant, like he was feeling it through a veil or in a dream. No. The touch wasn't cold, it was warm like chocolate and hugs like mum's touch always was, he was cold. From head to toe, completely and utterly and judging from the blazing fires around the room that wasn't right.
"–lease, baby boy, you must eat!" George must have zoned out again because mum had started talking again, desperation increased in her voice tenfold. Damn, she was so very strong. To be a mother in this situation… it must be the toughest thing in the world to experience and then at the end of the day put on a brave face and look after a whole grieving family. The self-disgust bubbled up again within George, he really was a selfish bastard. Everyone had done so much to help him and each other and to generally be productive and what'd he done but make things harder?
"I know it's hard but it's necessary. It's very plain food, just some soup and white bread, nice and easy to digest." Mum said with such a tender look, so sad and loving it almost burst a hole in his numbness. Goodness, what a thought. Surely such a thing would open the floodgates, leaving George under an endless body of water never to be found again. He blinked several times and swallowed. He didn't quite trust his voice and didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of his whole (never whole, never again, never never never) family so he just nodded and pulled the untouched plate of food closer with trembling hands. This seemed to make some sort of tension leave the whole table. Fuck, he was such a dick. Making his loved ones suffer more after all they'd been through.
Almost mechanically, George brought the food to his mouth: a small bread roll. As much as his body protested against the action, George forced himself to bite a bit off, the substance then staying in his mouth, feeling like a cross between sand and a dead mouse. He couldn't swallow it. It was genuinely impossible, he was genuinely incapable of it. But as his eyes scanned briefly around the room he knew he had to. There sat his family and friends, all overrun with care for him despite how tired they were. George was overcome by a sudden feeling of affection, what'd he ever done to deserve such amazing people in his life? At the same time a voice within him sneered, he didn't deserve this, he had no right to be here or to receive their affection. He contributed nothing but negatively now, his role used to be to make people laugh but how could he do that when he couldn't even smile?
After a few minutes the bread started to decompose in his mouth, feeling unpleasantly like a rotting corpse. Maybe he'd just become unable to think of anything but death, or maybe it was simply the smell of the dead that clung to the air. Either way he had to swallow the bread, he didn't think anyone there wanted to see him spit it out and he couldn't just leave it in his mouth, oh how ironic it would be if after all that he simply died by choking on bread.
When he swallowed he immediately wished he hadn't. The action itself was so hard to do, it was so hard to win the psychological struggle that said he couldn't possibly eat without Fred, he couldn't continue without Fred, and physically his throat was dry and swollen from ashes, injury and tears. But he finally managed to do it, the bread scraping his raw throat with a pain that was welcome in contrast to sickening revulsion that filled his body. He felt disgusting and immoral for eating at a time like this, when so many people wouldn't eat again. He wanted to burry his face in his twin's chest and cry while he stroked his back, telling him he'd be okay. But Fred was gone, his body refused to cry and no one and nothing was okay.
George felt sick to the stomach and quickly drank some of the soup, hoping it'd help keep the bread down. It didn't. The soup was salty and thick and cold with occasional pockets of warmth, in his mind it was blood. The blood of the dead, warmth leaving it never to return as it lay exposed to the air, thickening and clotting on the ground and he was drinking it, leeching off the dead. George let out a violent gag, clamping a hand over his mouth as his chair skidded across the floor to let him escape. He heard faint cries of alarm from his family behind him but concentrated instead on finding a safe place to empty the meagre contents of his stomach.
He was shaking and gaging, the barely digested food gone quickly leaving only bitter bile. He had no food left but his stomach didn't seem to care. He felt absolutely awful, suffering that seemed to have no end gripping his body like the cruciatus curse. It felt kind of cathartic, like a sick alternative to crying, so he just embraced it, letting himself completely escape his mind in favor of the harsh demands of his body.
Dinner was a rather somber affair. It wasn't silent, everyone was talking like if they stopped they'd be consumed by the darkness. It was like that first meal all over again when the war had finally finished and the dead still littered the hall, Bill shivered at the memory. It was because George was here, he knew. Not because they didn't like the poor boy, they loved him, or because they didn't want him to eat with them, they were relieved he was here. No, it was because George looked absolutely awful. Everyone had sort of shut off their grief, losing themselves to the chores and work that needed to be done, and George brought them all back to earth.
He was like a personification of the war aftermath. He was scattered with injuries, his face covered in dirt and his clothes tattered aside from the jumper Charlie had forced a then half unconscious George into. His eyes were bright red from tears, dark purple bags formed underneath from lack of sleep. His face was expressionless and pale, a look Bill thought was completely unnatural on his little brother. All in all he looked like a corpse. The thought made Bill's blood run cold. He forced himself to remember that just because the war was over didn't mean that people couldn't still die. With the horror of the battle followed by the relief of it being over, people were in danger of forgetting that. He had to look after his family, protect them, make sure everyone looked after themselves. They weren't out of the cooking pot yet but like hell he'd let anyone get hurt if he could help it. And George was in the most danger right now.
He watched his baby brother hoping to see a flicker of his usual joy but there was nothing, of course there'd be nothing. There was nothing but an empty space beside George and an equally empty look in his eyes. Pain stabbed in Bill's chest in grief. Fred was dead and, as much as he didn't want to admit it, George was lost too.
Everyone had a little try to get George to talk over dinner but he didn't respond at all, like he couldn't hear them, until mum started to try getting him to eat. He gave a small nod which filled Bill with some sort of relief and hope. He was sure he wasn't the only one tensely watching George eat, he really needed some food if the way his normally fitting clothes were hanging a bit too loose was anything to go by. George ate a bite, small but at least it was something, and for a moment everything was alright.
"Georgie, what's wrong?" Charlie asked, voice laced with concern. Bill's head snapped to Charlie then George. Charlie had always had some sort of extra connection to the twins, probably a byproduct of having to always look after them when the younger kids were born, so he'd always been able to tell first when something was up with Fred or George. Now Bill looked, George did look even paler, if that was even possible, and had a very worrying look on his face. A moment later, he stood up abruptly and ran, a hand clasped over his mouth. Everyone called after him, looking worried. Charlie sprung up and followed in quick pursuit of him, no hesitation. Bill quickly ran after the pair.
Panting, a moment after Charlie, Bill arrived where George had collapsed on the floor and was throwing up. The sight was physically painful, George gave off an aura of agony that had anyone close to him close to crying in empathy. But it wasn't just that, of course, it was the sight of his brother, whom he loved dearly, hurting so badly. He wanted to take the pain away, he wanted to make it better. He should be able to, damn it! He was big brother, that was supposed to be his job. But no, there was no force on this earth that could make this better, only a miracle could bring the light back into the poor boy's life.
Carefully, Bill lay a hand on George's shoulder, crouching down on the ground on the opposite side of George to Charlie. He gave his other brother a weak smile which he returned, grief and desperation obvious in those eyes that briefly met his own. He supported George's body to stop him from falling, it was as if all the strength had drained out of him, while rubbing the younger wizard's back soothingly, hoping to at least comfort the boy if not stop the pain.
"Shhh, it's okay, Georgie. You're okay, my hatchling. Just breath, breeaath, I've got you." Charlie whispered softly to George, massaging his back gently and resting his chin on the younger's shoulder. Bill spared himself a moment from the darkness to smile fondly, he'd always found it adorable when Charlie acted all mother-hen over the twins. The fondness turned to bitter grief thinking about the twins. Twin. Fred was dead now. The thought made him want to scream and cry to the sky but there was nothing he could do about it, that certainly wouldn't do any good. But George wasn't dead. He was alive and here and in pain, Bill wasn't going to lose him too. And that meant tomorrow he was taking him to get medical help, what anyone else, including the nurses, said be damned. It was with a new sense of purpose and determination that Bill continued to look after his ill brother.