Fred always loved winter.
It wasn't really surprising – although he wasn't very fond of the cold, he still enjoyed every minute of it. The snowball fights, hot chocolate, biscuits, mum's incredible Christmas dishes. Everything about it screamed Fred.
George hated it. He's hated it for ten years now. The fact that the seat to his right was empty, that no one knew any good Christmas jokes, that the present he bought for his twin always stayed under the tree, unopened.
Most of all, he hated finding his mother year after year, crying over a Christmas sweater she just started to crochet, before remembering that she had no one to give it to.
He would spent hours staring at his son – why, why did I name him Fred? – who, although he had none of his uncle's colouring, looked just like him. The same mischievous smile, the same spark in his eyes when he opened his presents, the same laugh. He couldn't look at himself in the mirror most days, but staring at his son during Christmas was the sweetest pain he ever felt. The thought of it, looking at his son and wanting to see his twin instead made him sick, but he couldn't help it.
So he just ignored it and, once again, put a small package under the tree, Forge written in a neat cursive on the tag.
