A/N: This is the first in a series of HP oneshots. They won't necessarily be in chronological order, spanning all three generations, shipping multiple couples, expressing all different moods and themes. This particular oneshot is about George shortly after Fred's death. Let me know what you think!
1. Broken
Sometimes, George let his hand graze the gaping hole where his ear should have been. The hole was perfectly round, painful to the touch; part of him that would forever be gone. Just like Fred.
Tonight, George drifted a finger across the side of his head, swirling his drink. He lifted the glass to his lips and poured the amber liquid down his throat, relishing the hot, thick flavor flaring behind his eyes and under his tongue. It burned as it slid into his stomach. He closed his eyes, imagining matching pale hands clenching jugs of frothy Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks; he opened his eyes, and saw only one hand, wrapped around a shot glass full of some Muggle drink in a slightly grimy bar in London. An iron weight pressed against his chest and his head throbbed.
"More," he said flatly.
The tattooed bartender nodded and refilled the glass with more of the same burning drink.
"Girl trouble?" he asked sympathetically.
George looked up. "My twin brother was murdered," he said, voice hollow, expressionless. He liked the effect: the way the bartender's eyes went wide, the way the blonde girl in the next seat shot him a curious, pitying glance.
Fred would have hated the bar. It was dark, dingy even. The girls were pretty at first glance; upon a second look, they were squeezed into too-tight clothes and wearing too much makeup. The drinks weren't strong enough. Nothing was strong enough to dull this.
The bartender's jaw was slack. Suddenly, George hated him. If Fred were here, he would probably crack a joke about how the bartender looked like a fatter, taller version of Kreacher. He would stop halfway through the sentence, allowing George to finish the punch line. Of course, Fred wasn't here, so George pushed his drink away and stood up. His footsteps fell softly upon the stained carpet. He stuffed his hands deep in his pockets, overwhelmed by the suffocating weight pressing on his heart. A dull, familiar pain shot behind his eyes; it took an enormous effort not to cry on the spot.
"Hey, babe," a sultry voice whispered into his ear – where his ear should have been, anyways.
A voluptuous brunette draped an arm across his shoulder, unfazed by his missing ear.
"Wanna go somewhere private?" she said, pressing her body close to his.
She was a wearing a skin-tight black dress. It was too short to be anywhere near decent; her pale breasts spilled over the top. Her makeup was smudged, her hair was slightly tangled. She smelled of beer. She wasn't the prettiest, nor the youngest, but she would do for tonight.
She led him into the back room, giggling. As she pulled her dress over her head, George noted she was scarless, an expanse of smooth, white skin. A Muggle, ignorant of the war, ignorant of the dozens of deaths. She never knew Fred. She never would.
George pounded into her with a boiling, searing anger. She wasn't the first; she wouldn't be the last. He wanted to disappear, evaporate, sink into a world where Fred was still alive. He wanted to prank Peeves, sell a box of Nosebleed Nougats, flirt with pretty girls at parties – but only if Fred could do it with him. Twin, brother, friend; none of those words embodied what Fred meant to him. They were two halves of the same whole. Now, cleaved in two, George felt empty, as if his innards had been carved away with a serrated knife. He felt irreparable. Broken.
A/N: Let me know what you think. :) If there are any particular ships, missing moments, or scenes you'd like me to write, let me know! I'm open to all ideas.