Disclaimer: Recognize it? It ain't mine. :)
It's kinda short, but I hope you enjoy it just the same. Reviews appreciated!
It was as if a piece more vital than his ear had been torn away from him. He hadn't understood the meaning of loss until the day the deatheaters had stolen from him one who couldn't be replaced. He would have preferred to live without such a lesson.
He barely registered the sodden earth that soaked through the knees of the violently pink robes that clashed so brilliantly with his red locks he had worn in honor of the one resting in the ground. It wasn't important.
The rain drifted down in layers more similar to the mist that floats into the air at the base of a high waterfall. It didn't faze him, though the breeze raised goose pimples across his exposed flesh. He didn't speak. There was nothing left to say. He hadn't smiled in weeks. Not a single joke had cracked between his lips. He hadn't been to the shop since that day that Voldemort fell.
How unholy that life should go on. That muggle children still played in parks while their parents watched over them. That there were joyous bursts of celebration from wizards everywhere, so elated were they that the Dark Lord was fallen. How could they celebrate, how could they laugh now that Fred was gone?
Drops of rain slid along the smooth line of his jaw. Though certainly there weren't any tears left to shed. The emptiness where chest his chest had been filled before now ached, a phantom limb without the decency of being a visible scar.
Time meant nothing. The hours slipped away until the already cloud darkened sky began to pull night's cloak around her shoulders. He was suddenly aware of a gentle touch against his neck, though he hadn't heard the approaching footsteps.
The warmth of the fingers made him realize how frozen he was. Clear blue eyes flickered up from the stone-etched name they'd been resting on.
Angelina gazed worriedly back into his eyes from where she stood over him. "George." Her voice was soft, feminine: a strange sort of comfort after the silent vigil. "You've been here for hours." A crease furrowed between her brows as she frowned with worry. "Everyone's left."
George blinked, his eyes finally registering how dark it had become around him. "I…" he shook his head unable to complete the words. His blank gaze instead returned to the tomb encasing his twin. Numb fingers reached for the unforgiving marble.
"Please come inside." Angelina begged gently, already leaning down and reaching for his hands. "Your mother's worried herself sick."
The girl now bent before him, arrested his gaze once more. He soaked in the color of her eyes and the freckle on her ear. He memorized the way her hair, drawn back in a simple long braid to keep it tamed, dripped from only a few moments in the rain. "You're wet." He observed, frowning his confusion. A smile ghosted across her lips at his oversight, "You too."
George couldn't manage to shape his face into the correct order to form a return smile, but she could see it in his eyes. Angelina wrapped her soft hands around his, using the grip to lever him to his feet. The acute pain of kneeling without movement for such a long period of time worked to further drag him from his daze.
Gingerly, he stretched the sore joints, and once he finished, Angelina wrapped an arm securely around his waist, pulling his arm around her shoulders before she began to lead him away from the family plot.
The pain lanced raggedly through his chest, piercing where he thought there was nothing left, and then warm tears joined the shining droplets of water sliding down his cheeks. Angelina didn't stop her march through the maze of graves. She simply squeezed George tighter to her side, allowing her own eyes to fill with the unyielding hurt of someone left behind by the dead. The slick marble stones bore silent witness to their retreating backs.
Bright stars and sparks of light exploded from the tiny package of waterproof fireworks left resting against the nameplate; a tribute appreciated.