It was after a long night, long after the dust had settled at last and filch had packed away his broom in defeat, did it hit him. But when it did it hit him hard. It hit him like a 10 ton truck travelling at full speed, straight into his chest. An emotion flooded over him, one he couldn't even recognise yet, surrounding him, suffocating but more importantly becoming him. Without another word to his family and friends, George hugged his mother, still sobbing silently, and walked out of the great hall without another glance. The need to be alone was suddenly so great he couldn't breathe. But then it hit him, alone meant by himself now. Before it had meant the 2 of them, sitting as one, playing a game of exploding snap, or thinking up another product for the shop, not having to talk to anyone else because they didn't need more than eachother.
Having pulled himself together enough to continue, George walked on, past the winged boars, past the three broomsticks and on into hogsmeade, where he apparated with the usual tight feeling of not being able to breathe. He landed with a soft thump, into a deserted street, with no knowledge of the war that had just been fought, the losses that had been sustained. And as he turned the corner, the familiar orange of Weasley's wizards wheezes greeted him, and a small smile lit up his face automatically, but quickly faded as he realised that the apostrophe was no longer needed. Struggling against the sudden burning pain in his chest he took a shuddery breath and opened the door, and proceeded into their – no, his, flat.
As he opened the door, the door into the flat that he now lived by himself in, and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. And as he saw only one face looking back, knowing he would never see the second again, he let the sobs he had held back for so long take over. He sank to the floor as they racked his body, fuelled by the many thoughts running through his head. Thoughts of how he was now alone for the first time in his life, how he had lost the other half to his soul, lost his best friend and brother. As thoughts ran through his mind, ideas of how he now had to face the rest of his life alone, without his twin, the better one of the pair, he could no longer contain it. The mangled scream escaped his lips, voicing his grief, his guilt at still being here, and his fear, his fear of being alone. Without Fred he was empty, and lost. Who would guide his way now, who could he follow to make things okay? Who would he tell that funny joke too, who would he laugh with when Ron did something stupid? Who would he share an exasperated sigh with when their mother failed to recognise them, even know? Then the idea that she could never again be mistaken opened up a whole load of pain until George thought that it would kill him, suck all the air out of his lungs until darkness enveloped him.
He sat like this for what felt like hours, until he was roused by the joints in his legs screaming for relief. Standing shakily, exhausted and bruised, George caught sight of himself in the mirror once more. Despite the puffy eyes and cut cheek, he saw something else. He glimpsed his brother staring back out from his eyes, and a realisation hit him. He wasn't alone, he carried his brother in his heart and in his memories. Brushing a stray tear from his cheek, he stood tall. 'come one freddie' he whispered, 'lets live'. For neither would die while the other survived.