A/N: This is just something that came up in my mind. It's probably not that worth a read. I simply had to get it out of my head. It didn't actually come out right. I'm sorry for not updating my other fics, but they would have to wait until after next week. This story is also to push me into the mood for writing.
A story of maybe up to 3 chapters, depends on reviews.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any related characters to it.
He ran. He ran so hard.
From the moment he felt that jolt – that jolt that had embedded a deep-rooted fear in his heart – he had taken off, bolting in whatever direction his mind had told him to. He knew not what he ran for, simply that it was important. More so than his life, or perhaps even the war.
Not for the first time, he felt afraid.
His heart thudded, pounded against his chest - a non-rhythmic beat that sent a chill through him. Only one person could be the cause of that. But it couldn't be.
No. That was impossible.
Then why are you running?
Loud, painful gasps tore through his throat. His legs burned, his arm hurt – a wound perhaps, he thought.
Why are you running?
A pant nearly akin to a soft sob escaped his lips.
Why…
His eyes burned.
Are you running?
…
No.
His ran faster as every one of his senses wailed urgency at him. He had to make it. But what was it that he had to go to? What was it that demanded his presence so badly? He didn't know. He didn't.
Don't deny it.
He ducked, evading a curse that came his way. Barely stopping, he barreled ahead, not bothering to retaliate.
You know.
He begged his mind to stop. He didn't need this, damn it! Not now. It couldn't be true. If it was, what was there to live for? Why was he fighting? Why hadn't the war stopped?
Please…
He skidded into the Great Hall. His wide onyx eyes scanned the room and stopped when he spotted ginger hair. Cold dread crept into him as he realized they were crowding around something – no, someone.
No…
They were crying.
Time seemed to have stopped. Nothing seemed to move. His gaze slowly travelled to the one they were mourning. The one his family was mourning. He registered the same flaming red hair, the same face, the same smile.
No… Please…
A part of him heard someone call his name, some hurried footsteps. But he didn't care. He stumbled forward slowly, nearer to his brother. The one that truly mattered.
He fell to his knees.
No, please. Fred…
You didn't.
He stared right into his twin's eyes, open and unseeing. He felt his world fall apart, breaking near the edges before collapsing altogether. Ice clenched around his heart.
He was dying. He had to be.
As a tear fell onto Fred's cold cheek, a pained realization swept through him in an instant, crushing his denial into a million pieces.
No, no no! Please! No!
A ear-piercing cry shattered the stillness of the night.
"George, dear," Molly called softly. She knocked against the door again and tried to mask the plead in her words. "Please come out. It's time for dinner."
When she received no response, she sighed. Fingering the wand in her hand doubtfully, she turned and headed downstairs. The six pairs of eyes which greeted her expectantly as she entered the kitchen quickly became downcast.
In silence, she announced the start of dinner. She would have tried to sound cheerful, but she didn't have it in her to do so. Her child was in pain. Her entire family was. And she couldn't do anything about it.
"Mum, we can't let this go on much longer."
Molly looked at her eldest son sadly. "There's nothing-"
"There is something!" Bill cried. "It's been days. All he does is stay in his room. He won't talk. He won't eat. He won't do anything!"
"Bill, dear–"
"At this rate, he'll die, Mum!"
Everyone cringed. Bill breathed loudly, his fingers curling into a fist on the table. "You just don't get it," he whispered. "He'll die."
"That's enough, Bill," Arthur spoke up. "The last time we forced him to eat he became near hysterical." He sighed when Bill averted his gaze. "George… He has to be willing to move on. If we pressure him too much, I'm afraid we may lose him for good."
A soft, bitter laugh resounded through the house. "So it's fine if we lose him by watching by the sidelines?"
Arthur's lips thinned. "We will only interfere when it's been too long. Right now, he needs to come to terms with…reality."
Silence fell over them like a shroud. No longer were any meals as warm or as cheerful as they had been in the past. Instead, they were now quiet and solemn. It was strange, how the loss of one life could affect so many others so much.
George didn't want to feel. It scared him. He knew he should be feeling something. Fred was gone, and his absence could only leave a gaping hole in his wake. George waited for the feelings to come. He wondered when he would be overwhelmed by the crushing weight of his brother's parting. But he just couldn't feel.
He spent his days staring at nothing.
His mind was empty. His eyes were dull.
A part of him wanted to cry, scream, or feel the need to lash out at someone. But he didn't.
The knowledge that the inevitable part of losing one's loved one hasn't come yet struck a chord in him. His not being able to cry, did it mean he didn't truly care for Fred? Why couldn't he feel anything? Because more or less, he didn't feel anything. When he slammed the door into his mother's face just to test if he would feel any guilt like he'd known he should, he didn't.
And it frightened him.
George Weasley couldn't feel. And what made it worse was that he didn't care.
Someone was knocking on his bedroom door. George looked up, his face blank. Who was that? Was it Fred?
Fred…
"George? George, it's me. Charlie."
George tilted his head slightly. That voice sounded so familiar. Like something from another world. Something I have…forgotten?
Another thump. "George, please open the door."
"George!" The said subject heard a muffled curse before some shuffling ensued. There was a faint muttering, and his door opened. Charlie stood in the doorway, a wand in his hand.
George noted absent-mindedly how old his brother looked. Dark rings seemed to droop below his onyx eyes, as if he hadn't had a good night's sleep for weeks. His lips were pursed into a thin line, his brown orbs appraising George warily.
"George," he breathed.
The younger Weasley simply stared blankly up at Charlie. Like he had done any other day when anyone forced his door open to give him food, he didn't say anything. Charlie walked towards him and sat on the edge of his bed.
"George," he repeated. After a long moment of utter quiet, his eyes closed in despair. "Won't you say something to your brother?" he whispered.
"What do you want me to say?"
Charlie's eyes snapped open. His lips parted in surprise as he stared at George, shocked into silence.
George flicked him a glance before looking away. "There's nothing to say, Charlie."
"N-no!" Charlie pulled himself together, relief trickling into his veins as he finally, finally, heard his brother's voice. He had thought he'd never hear it again. "Of course there is, George. Tell me…Tell me how you feel."
George paused and slowly inclined his head towards the older Weasley. "How I feel…" George tested the words softly. "Charlie…"
"Go on," Charlie encouraged.
Their eyes met.
"I don't feel anything."
Charlie had been visiting him.
Whether it was to talk, or to deliver food to him, it would always be Charlie. George wondered why Charlie would put up with him. Why should anyone care about him? He didn't seem to care that Fred had died. He didn't deserve his family's attention.
"I don't feel anything."
Charlie's eyes widened. "What do you mean, George?"
George looked away. "I don't feel anything, Charlie," he answered tonelessly. "Fred's gone. And I don't feel anything."
Both of them feel quiet. George wondered if he should have felt uncomfortable. Neither Fred nor himself liked silence. They appreciated it once in a while, when they're alone, or when they were in one of their rare arguments with one another. Other times, the absence of sound never suited them.
"You do care."
George turned to Charlie, his face still expressionless, wiped clean of all emotion the day his brother had fallen. Charlie grabbed George's shoulders tightly.
"If you didn't – don't – you wouldn't be like this, George!" he plowed on, almost desperately. "Why do you think you've been holing yourself up in your room? Why are you so void of emotion?" His voice fell an octave lower. "This isn't you. Don't you get it?"
George had answered, his voice just the slightest bit confused. "Then who am I, Charlie? Tell me. Because I don't know."
Charlie hadn't known the answer to that.
George's gaze shifted to the other twin bed in his room. Even after so long, he still felt, as Charlie had called it, numb.
I'm supposed to care, George thought. But I don't. What - he closed his eyes – does that make me?
But if there was one thing that he was certain of…
Fred?
He didn't want Fred to hate him.
Please don't hate me.
He didn't think he could bear it.
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