Title: And Then There Was One
Author: Indarae
Rating: PG for one sort-of-bad word
Summary: A George-cookie. The bells toll out a funeral in Ottery St. Catchpole, Fred's meadow is blooming, and George tries to learn what it is to be One.
Church bells rang out over Ottery St. Catchpole, sounding out over the meadows and the Burrow. A red-haired, freckled Weasley was the only one awake early enough to hear them, sitting on the back step of the Weasley family home, staring out across the meadows. It was the noise of another funeral.
The bells had a different song for each liturgical event they proclaimed. One for marriage, one to call the worshippers to prayer, and one for funerals. He'd learned all of the songs over the twenty years he'd spent in the oddly-shaped home of his family. He was sure that none of the others realized that there were twice as many funeral songs now than there had been only a few years ago. Ottery St. Catchpole wasn't a wizarding town, but a good number of wizards and witches lived and died there — though it seemed like there was more dying than living happening now.
"George?" The voice nudged him from his thoughts. He glanced back, silently giving his little sister his attention. "George, there's someone here to see you."
He shook his head and turned back to the meadow. It really was beautiful during the late summertime, filled with reds and yellows and pinks. Fred loved the colors of the meadow behind the Burrow. He thought they looked like a painting.
After a moment, George realized that Ginny had taken a seat next to him on the bottom step. "He woke up Bill when he showed up by floo right into the living room. Bill screamed like he'd seen a banshee and fell of the couch, right on top of Charlie's foot. Mum thinks he broke it."
George shrugged. There didn't seem to be anything to say in response. The visitor was probably Percy, come home for the anniversary. Perfect Percy didn't stay at home anymore. His hand on the family clock seemed to always be fixed on "Work," just as Fred's hadn't moved in a year.
"He really needs to talk to you. He asked me to find you right away. I didn't think he'd be away from the school so close to the first day of classes, but he brought a letter for you. He wants to deliver it in person, he said it was too important for an owl." Ginny rose from her seat, latching onto George's arm and tugging.
She didn't seem like she'd move until he followed so, with a sigh of resignation, George climbed to his feet. With one last gaze over Fred's meadow — it wasn't really his, of course, but what else could he think of it as? — he turned and followed his little sister inside.
Mrs. Weasley was awake making breakfast in the kitchen, though she stopped to watch George with a worried gaze as he walked by, being dragged by Ginny. He was sick of everyone watching him like that; like he was a dungbomb about to explode. He'd gotten better, over the year. They didn't have to keep the pain medicine or the sharp objects away from him like they did. It's not like he still wanted to die. He'd lost that longing the day he celebrated his twentieth birthday and found the letters they'd written to each other on their eleventh, hidden away until the date nine years later.
As he passed into the living room, his eyes instinctively found the clock. Just as it had been every morning since Ron had graduated, all the hands were fixed on "Home" but for Percy and Fred, pointing to "Work" and "In God's Care" respectively. He winced at the later and turned to face the visitor.
"Hello, Mr. Weasley," the elderly wizard murmured, giving a kind smile, eyes twinkling over his glasses. George had seen hundreds of kind smiles, ever since he'd sat at home and watched Fred's clock-hand slip from "Work" to "Mortal Peril" and finally to death. "I hate to disturb you so early in the morning, but I have a rather urgent request to make of you -"
"No," George snapped, drawing a gasp of surprise from his little sister. As far as George knew, it was the first word he'd uttered in a week. Too bad the word was wasted on Dumbledore. "No, Headmaster. Whatever it is, I want no part in it. Isn't my brother dying for the cause and destroying the lives and reputation of my family enough for you?"
The old man settled into a chair, looking every bit his advanced age. "Mr. Weasley... George, if we'd revealed the truth, the rest of our agents would've been in even more danger than they've already put themselves. Fred wouldn't have wanted -"
"How do you know what Fred wouldn't have wanted!? All the world knows is that Fred Weasley was found dead in a group of Death Eaters after a bomb exploded at the wrong time, wearing one of THEIR cloaks, with the Dark Mark on his arm! The world doesn't know that he wasn't a traitor! All they see is a family under suspicion because one of their sons betrayed everything that had been taught and joined Lord Bloody Voldemort!" George ignored Ginny's shriek and his mother's gasp, and the lowered voices of his brothers all shocked that he'd said the name.
"George... please, I know how much you hurt... but there is a war going on. We need all the help we can get, and your family has always been -"
"No."
Dumbledore frowned deeply. George wondered if he'd ever been turned down so severely before. Albus Dumbledore was one of the — if not the most — respected men in British Wizarding society. Unless one supported the Dark Lord, one would run to help the esteemed Headmaster of Hogwarts, champion of the Light, and holder of the Order of Merlin (First Class). Maybe George was the first one to turn him down without hearing the question.
"No," he repeated, finding strength in the simple word. "You took my brother from me. You took my life from me. Leave me alone to build a new one."
George turned and left the room silently. He heard his mother calling after him and his sister gushing her apologies to Dumbledore. None of it really mattered. He'd let them deal with the old man and pack him back off to Hogwarts.
Would Fred have turned the man away? Probably not. But, then again, Fred wasn't there to ask. Once they'd been Fredandgeorge. Two.
Now there was one.
He couldn't stay. Not anymore, not when his family thought he was too fragile to speak to and too scarred to recover. He couldn't discover who George-without-Fred really was in the midst of places and smells and sights that reminded him of Fred. Maybe Charlie would take him to Romania, or Bill to Egypt. Maybe he'd go off to America and start over completely, or disappear into the Muggle world where Lord Sodding Voldemort wouldn't ever care to find him. Then he could be George, alone.
He slipped out onto the steps and sat down again, staring across Fred's meadow and at the small Muggle village of Ottery St. Catchpole. The flowers of the meadow were blooming in pinks, yellows, and oranges. Just like a painting. He'd miss the meadow.