A/N: This is my first HP fic... ever. Constructive criticism welcome! Please be gentle though, yeah?

Disclaimer: I do not own anything HP related. Got it? Good.

Moonlight filtered in through the open window, the curtains blowing ever so slightly in the breeze, wind chimes tinkling softly. There was a shaft of light that sliced across the room and across the bed where they lay, one asleep – one not.

It was rare for him to sleep undisturbed these days, memories haunting his every footstep, and when she'd awoken twenty minutes earlier and discovered him doing so she had taken great pains not to wake him. It was rare enough that he actually got to sleep during the night at all, but for him to be out like a light and in a deep, dreamless sleep was a mere miracle. She'd lost count of the amount of times over the past year she'd woken up to him screaming, crying or trembling so hard that the entire bed shook. He was a completely different man during the day, but as soon as his head hit the pillow at night-time he transformed into someone else. Someone almost frail.

She ran her fingers through his hair carefully, allowing his strong arm to pull her to his side in sleep, his face nuzzled between her bare breasts. His skin was almost milky beside hers, but was by no means pale anymore. George was a definite summer baby – he loved the warm weather, thrived in it even, and often she'd find herself wondering out to him as he worked during the days and smoothing sun tan lotion all over his back and shoulders. He would stand there patiently while she fussed, moving the appropriate limb upon command so she was sure she'd gotten an even coverage.

Against her his breathing hitched, his shoulders tensing beneath her gentle hands. He murmured wordlessly against her skin, his brow furrowing as he started to become restless. She immediately began stroking his hair and neck, her mouth pressed to the top of his head as she whispered reassuring nothings to him. His arms were wound tight around her waist by now and they squeezed her a little tighter than was comfortable, but she ignored it. She wasn't about to argue with him about squeezing too hard when she was more concerned about putting his fears to rest.

"It's ok," she whispered, fingers carding through long hair. "Shhh, Love. It's alright…" She could feel wetness against her skin and tears started to swell unbidden in her eyes. She knew what he was dreaming about, knew exactly what it was that was distressing him so much.

Fred.

She couldn't even begin to imagine how he felt most days, the loss of her parents a dull ache compared to his everyday struggle. At first he had been so quiet, so uncharacteristically quiet that everyone had suspected the worst. They would hover and fuss over him, refuse to leave him alone until finally one day the normally lovable and quirky George Weasley had snapped. He had raged and screamed, sobbed and thrown things and almost destroyed the ground floor of The Burrow in his state until she had finally shaken herself from her shocked stupor and stunned him. He had lain on the floor, red-faced and blotchy from his tears, curled in the foetal position with his head pillowed in her lap and wailed for a solid hour.

"It's ok to miss him, George," She had murmured softly to him as she'd stroked his hair from his eyes, "It's ok to want him back."

There were still days where he needed to hear those words, even several years after his other half had died. She felt helpless on those days, lying awake listening to him call Fred's name in his sleep, sometimes with a laugh, others with a terrible scream of pain. Those days he felt so far away from her, so broken but slowly, surely, he was coming back to her. It was taking a while longer than anticipated, but it didn't matter to her.

He was hers now and she was in it for the long haul.