A/N: Written for the Big/Lil' Sis Team Prompt Competition II by dimitrisgirl18 on the HPFC Forum. Prompts: George Weasley, 'I wish', an unexpected visitor, holding hands, just before the dawn

It was early in the morning of the first of September, and the sky was black when Ginny awoke to the sound of someone creeping down the stairs past her bedroom. She got out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown, charmed her door against squeaking before she opened it and checked the coast was clear. Then she tiptoed, barefooted, down the chilly steps, automatically glancing at her mother's clock on the living-room wall as she passed. Eight golden hands were pointing to 'home'; even now, after two and a half months, she still could not look at the ninth, Fred's, without wincing. But she didn't need a magical clock to tell her who the shadow sitting on the front steps of The Burrow, staring into space, was.

'Hi,' she said softly, sitting down next to him and slipping her small hand into his. 'Couldn't sleep?'

George gave a small, mirthless laugh. 'You know it.'

'Neither could I,' she lied. 'When I think I'll be back at Hogwarts with Hermione by to—'

'I can't stand it, Ginny.'

Her breath hitched. So she'd been right after all. 'Can't stand what?'

'Him being gone.' The words opened up a familiar ache in Ginny's heart, and she half dreaded, half yearned to hear what he would say next. 'I sleep, and I dream he's there, and then I wake up, and I don't know which is the nightmare and which is real until I look over and realise that he's not there … that he'll never be there.' His voice broke.

'Is that why you stopped sleeping over the shop?'

He nodded jerkily.

Ginny sighed. She lit her wand, illuminating the pair of them and creating dramatic, mysterious shadows in the unkempt garden.

'George, Fred's dead –'

'Don't say –'

'Saying his name might not bring him back, but it won't kill you, either.' Swallowing the lump in her throat, Ginny ploughed on determinedly. 'D'you think you're the only one who misses him? Don't you see the way Mum cries whenever you don't come down for dinner? Do you think Percy doesn't wish every day that he hadn't sided with the Ministry, that Bill and Charlie don't regret spending so much time away? I'm telling you, you can't keep beating yourself up like this. Fred wouldn't want –'

'It's like you said,' he interjected hollowly. 'Fred's dead. We can't know what he would have wanted. He's dead, he's dead, he's dead …'

Ginny burst into tears. This was so surprising and out-of-character that George came out of his wild trance and stared.

'Ginny, wait … I didn't mean …'

'I c-can't stand you being like this!' She hiccupped, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her dressing gown without ceasing her tears. 'When Bill and Charlie are away and P-Percy keeps brooding and Ron's always with Harry and Hermione, who else am I supposed to talk to? F-Fred teased, but you didn't always. He was m-my brother too, George – I know he was your twin, but that d-doesn't make him all yours! You're not the only one allowed to m-miss him, you know!' She conjured tissue after tissue and blew until her nose was red.

'Ginny …'

She elbowed him in the ribs in a familiar, half-hearted move. 'Shut up,' she said dully, expecting brotherly ribbing for her emotional outburst.

'Percy and Ron saw it happen,' he whispered, gripping her hand tightly – she could almost see the memories flooding back, and she hated herself for triggering them. 'They saw him get killed, Ginny, but you and I can just imagine, and I can't tell which is worse. On good days, I wish he'd stayed with me – with us. On bad days, I wish I'd gone with him.'

'I just wish he were here.' Ginny tried to keep her voice steady, to stop the tears coming back, but it was almost impossible. 'But you know what they say … if wishes were Nifflers …'

'We'd be rolling in gold,' he supplied. She stifled a snort at his incorrect half of the idiom, unable to help herself, but George made a sort of choked noise and turned away sharply, staring at the sky, which was now dark blue instead of pitch black. Heart sinking, she stayed silent, and so did he; her hand was still in his.

'It reminds me of him,' he said thickly, dragging a sleeve over his face in a slow, listless movement. 'That thing where you say one half of a joke and the other person says the other.'

'The third twin,' Ginny said, alluding to an old childhood joke.

'Yeah.' He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, then let it out slowly. 'After he – after it happened, I thought I'd never be able to tell a joke again, that it would hurt too much … We used to think you were so annoying, always tagging along. But you were also the one who kept all our secrets, even from Mum. I miss that.'

Ginny smiled. 'D'you remember when you two kept on asking me who my favourite twin was, and I refused to say, because answering either would mean an onslaught of pranks from the other?'

He nodded, reminiscing.

'He was so worried when you got cursed,' she said. 'But you didn't seem to mind missing an ear at all. I think … I think that we're so afraid of losing others that we give them pieces of ourselves to hold, and when they leave, taking that piece with them, we're just left feeling … incomplete.'

George sighed. 'It's not like I don't know that he wouldn't want me to be happy, Ginny.' He left the statement unfinished, but Ginny knew how it ended: 'It's just that happiness has always meant the two of us, and now that he's gone, I don't know what to do.'

'Look, George,' she whispered. 'It's OK to miss him – we all do. Just don't let it take you over. I –'

Again the dam broke, but this time George was the teary one and Ginny was the one who sat beside, offering silent sympathy through the medium of sibling love and companionship. Conjuring more clean tissues, she levitated them until they tickled his nose. He chuckled weakly, but took them and used them nevertheless.

'I reckon I know why Mum was always so much more worried about you two than about Bill or Percy or any of the rest of us,' she said finally. 'It's not that you are – that you weren't responsible, just that you were so funny and daring and clever and brave that you defied disaster and Voldemort just by living; the thought of anything actually happening to you was impossible. But last year, you got cursed, and then … and then …'

She remembered George's earlier words: On good days, I wish he'd stayed with me – with us. On bad days, I wish I'd gone with him. This time, however, she caught the implication.

'But I'm glad you're – you're still here,' she said, squeezing his hand. 'I know it's awful enough, but I wouldn't have been able to stand it if it had been you k-killed as well.' Or worse, she thought. For, broken and grieving though he was, George was still alive, with healed wounds (missing ear notwithstanding) and a healing soul, and that alone was cause for celebration.

'I'm sorry I missed your birthday party,' he said at last.

'So did Fred, but I know neither of you meant it.'

Unseen in the living room, the clock's last golden hand moved silently to rest on 'home'. The sky was a deep blue. It was almost dawn.