The world belongs to JKR, I'm just visiting.
Not Quite Letting Go
I was going to marry him.
He wasn't to know that, of course. Not yet, anyway. He was having too much fun building his evil-ish empire, and I was killing myself learning to be the best junior assistant to the assistant coach I could be. Neither one of us was much interested in marriage yet, but I could feel it creeping up on me just the same, and I knew how it would turn out, too. I'm not a big believer in happily-ever-after, but I was convinced that he and I had as good a chance as any. I may not have been head over heels, but I was darned close.
Was. Or am? It should be 'was,' of course, but I'm still in denial, so it's still 'am.'.
I go up to George at the funeral. Take his hand. Look him in the eye. It's an odd sensation, gazing into the almost-eyes of your dead someday-husband. Realizing that you'll never see his face again while looking at his exact copy. It's almost like nature is presenting you with a replacement. "Here you go. Fred may be gone, but we can offer you a deal on this model, only a little worse for the wear." Which is horrible, because Fred and George were never the same and only the cruelest of jokes is causing me to search George's face for the similarities.
Hair? Check. Nose? Check. Freckles? Eyebrows? Chin? Check, check, check. But the smile, if it ever appears again, is all wrong. And the eyes ... well, at least the color is right. George's eyes are searching mine now, his gaze solemn. He can probably tell what I'm thinking, George was always the sensitive one, and I flick my gaze to a point over his left shoulder.
"This is stupid," I mutter, and I'm surprised at how angry I sound. "I mean, he's a hero, and he did the right thing and we're all proud of him, but this is just ... stupid," I trail off into silence.
"I know." George just keeps staring at me and I let him catch my eye again. His eyes are dry, but red, as if he'd been crying until he was too tired to go on with it. I feel a sudden urge to hug him, but he's wearing Fred's face, and I'm still angry with Fred for leaving, so I leave my arms at my side.
"He used to talk about you, Ange," George says suddenly, as if he'd only just made up his mind. "Not a lot, but sometimes. Used to call you one hell of a woman." He quirked up one corner of his mouth in a half-hearted smile, "I thought you'd want to know."
I try to keep my expression stony, but I can feel myself softening, so instead I look away again. I try to remember that I'm angry, but I never could stay angry at Fred. He was a good man, really, the kind you don't forget in a hurry; the kind that refuses to be forgotten. I don't cry, I never cry, but I know enough not to try to speak.
I look up again at George, who will never forget him either. Who will have to watch himself grow and change in the mirror every day while his twin stays the same forever. Who will have to learn, for the first time, to become Just George.
I want to let him know that I don't blame him for not being his brother, and that I'll eventually stop trying to catch a glimpse of Fred in his face. I want thank him for his kind words, and to return the favor. I want to let him know that someday things will be better because they have to be, but I can't work out how to express myself.
I heave a gusty sigh and settle for hugging him after all.