Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter far more people would be dead because I lack a soul and Ron and Hermione would have been making out by book 5. The books would also be far less successful. That is all.

"You alright, George?" "You okay?" "Alright?" "Are you okay?" "How are you?" "You doing fine?"

Of course you aren't fine.

You feel split, right down the middle.

You lost your other half. You aren't supposed to exist without half of yourself, without your heart.

You feel lost. Who will finish your sentences? Who will run the shop with you? Who will always be there?

Well. He won't be there anymore, you know that very well, you know that was a promise he could never keep.

You were never meant to be two different people. It was always FredandGeorge. Not just Fred or just George.

Gred and Forge.

You can't picture yourself without him. You can't look in the mirror without seeing him.

You've taken to avoiding anything with a reflection in it at all cost; you broke the one in your own bathroom when you saw it.

You flinch at the sound of gun powder and laughter. You know he would have kicked your moping arse for just sitting here like this.

The others come and sit with you, try to get you to talk. Harry dares to come in here and apologize, and you very nearly laugh, though it's as if you don't even remember how to anymore. So when he plods into the room, shuffling awkwardly and watching you stare out the window, his survivor's guilt eating him alive, you send him off with a blank stare and a derisive snort.

But you don't speak a word.

Everyone tries, but you just refuse to talk.

You won't talk. Not yet.

Which is why you are surprised when Angelina Johnson, the girl you haven't seen since the Battle of Hogwarts, the girl he took to the Yule Ball, comes strutting in. She glares at you with burning, dark eyes. You quirk a brow, as if to say the buggering hell are you doing here?

"We're getting you off your miserable arse." She grins wickedly, "…and the best way to do that is to get you completely sloshed." A voice says from the hallway.

Lee Jordan pokes his head into your messy room, and his eyes go wide slightly at the sight of you.

He has enough sense not to comment.

"Now. Get changed and come on, you ugly freckled git." Angelina says sharply, poking you in the ribs with her wand.

You glare up at her, but its no use.

Twenty minutes later you're at the Leaky Cauldron, sitting on a stool with your old school friends.

An empty seat is pulled out next to you for where Fred was supposed to be.

And it goes on like that for weeks. Angelina comes striding in, drags you out from under the comfort of your old covers, and gets you (well more like herself but that's beside the point) piss drunk.

Sometimes Lee comes, but most of the time now these little drinking adventures are for you two.

You drink, letting the firewhiskey burn your throat to a crisp (you never realized how well Angelina could hold her liquor) and then stumble home.

But you don't talk.

You still haven't talked.

You're starting to think the firewhiskey has burned your vocal cords away, but really (and you know, you just make excuses) you just don't talk because your voice sounds exactly like his.

Months pass, Hermione and Ginny return to Hogwarts, Harry and Ron go to auror training (your baby brother, an auror), and then it's just you.

Sitting in your old bedroom.

Staring out the window.

Only leaving for bar visits that become more and more frequent.

And then, suddenly, it's a year later.

When did that happen?

You haven't spoken for a year.

You didn't speak that day either. You watched, a small smile (the only thing you can seem to manage anymore) as Fleur and Bill held their beautiful daughter (when was she pregnant?), watched as they named her in honor of everyone they had lost, for everything they had won.

Victoire.

Angelina is there the day after you come home from St. Mungo's.

Angelina doesn't want to go drinking today.

She drags you outside, to the old, overgrown Quidditch pitch, where you know he is buried.

Your other half.

She holds your hand as you stare down at the gravestone.

One year and a day since his death (still broken).

You need to start mending (far too broken for far too long).

So, 366 days after the death of Fred Weasley, 366 days since you uttered a word of any sort, you turn to Angelina.

"I'm not okay."

Your voice is hoarse and cracking, but she smiles so wide you think her face might break.

"But you will be."

And she just wraps one arm around your waist while you throw your own over her shoulders.

And you will be.

This started out as a much longer one-shot from third person...and then turned into this.