He sat on a small, folding chair, his head hanging so his neck was exposed. His red hair was rather messy, it had not been combed in days, but he didn't feel why it should be. He didn't want to. He didn't need to.
People were coming closer now, he could hear it. But not very well. He didn't bother turning his head to hear what they were saying; he already knew what words were escaping their lips, what songs they were spinning. But he didn't want to hear them; he didn't want to have someone else say the words to him, to sing him that song.
Not when he couldn't sing it himself.
He wrenched himself from his small, folding chair to escape the crowds and their songs and their words. He wanted to run, to fly, to flee, to get away from his home and everyone in it, to run as far away as he could from the songs.
But he couldn't. He couldn't so much as make it to the gate, to reach the hills or stand on the soft, green grass that surrounded his home. He couldn't leave behind the small, folding chairs, the words, the songs, everything. He had to stay and face them, to stand strong and hope he didn't break down.
He hadn't broken down yet and it had been a week, an entire week since that fateful day. One that had been filled with joy and laughter and cheer. But it was also filled with tears and sadness and despair. All over the world, people would be celebrating right now, right this very instant. But what they didn't understand was that people would be grieving too, saying goodbye to one that they love. One that had stood by them through everything. One that no one expected to leave them so suddenly.
George Weasley looked down the row of small, folding chairs at a table that seemed miles away, at a table that seemed as though it would continue to move away from him if he approached it. Everyone else could reach it, everyone else could say goodbye.
But George couldn't bring himself to say goodbye. Not yet, not when there was so much left for them to do, when there were so many things to invent, so many jokes never told, so many adventures to go on.
But this wasn't the reason why words didn't escape his mouth. That wasn't the reason why he wasn't spinning songs with all the others. No, it was something else, something that hadn't occurred to George during all his hours of silence, all the painful, agonizing hours of silence.
More people were arriving, all ready to say goodbye. They moved around George like shadows in an icy pool, distant and shimmering. He couldn't make out their faces, even of those who he knew, those who shared his blood.
As many took their place on one of the many small, folding chairs, George stayed rooted at the end of the rows, unmoving. People didn't talk to him or push him or told him to sit down. They all simply walked around him, as if he were a tree or a large rock that no one had been able to move. They moved around him as if he was a piece of the environment, a part of the scenery.
George couldn't bear himself to move from his spot in the middle of the row of small, folding chairs. It was as if his legs had stopped working, they had stopped reacting to anything. It was as if he was someplace else, as if his mind and soul had left his body, leaving it for someone else to clean up or dispose with. That's what he felt like, disposing of his body. But he knew he should never think those thoughts, even though he couldn't help it.
George couldn't think of why he could not say a word until he heard a man talking. It was the only clear sound that penetrated his ears for days, the only coherent thing that could focus in George's brain.
It was his father. He spoke fondly of him, of the good times they had spent together, but he could not hold back the tears, he could not hold back the grief he felt or the sorrow that dwelled within him. Tears flowed freely down George's father's face but he did not stop talking, he did not stop recalling good time after good time.
And then he said something that made the cogs in George's mind begin again, he said something that made George realise what was going on for the first time since that day.
He spoke of how George would be taking this the hardest, how George would be forever missing something, how George would be missing a familiar face over his shoulder, how George would forever miss his shadow.
His twin.
He spoke of how George would feel that he was incomplete, that he was missing part of himself and George realized why.
They were always together; they were never far from each other's reach, never far from each other's backs. Never far from each other's shadow. Their names were hardly ever said apart from each other; they were always a pair, two of a kind, two in a million. Having only one left was… strange.
Unheard of.
Heart wrenching.
George's tear ducts began to work now. Salty tears were now streaking down his freckled face and seeping down his chin, onto the ground below. Everything that had been stopped for a week was now working, everything was coming out, every emotion, every feeling, every regret. His previous desire to run, to fly, to flee was gone. Now there was only one thing for him to do.
Not caring that his father was still talking. Not caring that there were dozens of people around him. Not caring where he was or who was with him. George walked slowly yet steadily towards the table at the end of the row of the small, folding chairs. Heads and eyes and mutterings were now focused on him as he passed his friends, his relatives and people he barely knew.
George walked right up to the table, which supported his identical twin up high. He stood beside it, staring into what could have been his own reflection. He stared down into the almost peaceful, resting face that was his twin and felt more tears run down his face and onto the body.
Wrapping his arms around him, George pulled the body up and forced him into a one-sided hug that was cold yet somehow comforting. Ignoring everyone's eyes on him, ignoring the obvious stares that he was receiving, ignoring the mutters that floated to his ears, George set the body of his twin back onto the table as it was before he had touched it.
He looked into the lifeless face of Fred Weasley and muttered a single word in a croaky, tear soaked voice.
"Goodbye."