A/N: I can't handle the thought of Fred dying, so this piece was a difficult one. Anyways, I hope you like it, because I'll probably never write anything this depressing again.
Just a short one-shot. Anything recognisable is Rowling's.
Set the summer before Fred and George's sixth year, on one of the nights of the Quidditch World Cup.
Having a twin is weird sometimes. In a good way, I suppose. After all, life is better with a partner-in-crime.
I know Fred will always be by my side to finish my sentences when I can't find the words I need. He'll always be there to fight with me over who's fitter, even though our own mother can't tell us apart. (Deep down, I know he knows its me.)
Fred and I will always be inseparable. He's a piece of me. My other half.
He's asleep now, in the bed next to mine. Outside, celebration over the World Cup drags on into its zillionth hour, but even notorious pranksters have to sleep eventually.
I don't know what Fred dreams of; that's one thing I can't share with him. In dreams, we enter a world that's entirely our own.
Once, when I was fourteen and she was twelve, Hermione asked me a question I think about almost every day.
"What would you do without him, George?" she had asked after observing us in the common room with an expression of mixed disapproval and curiosity, no doubt sparked by the ominously fuming potion we'd been working on for the last hour and a half.
I had pondered this for a long moment before answering, "I wouldn't."
I'll never let him go.