A/n: Me no own.

Fred was gone.

George sat alone at the small kitchen table in his and Fred's flat, head in hands, contemplating the fact. Fred was gone. Fred was gone. Fred was gone. He repeated the words to himself for what felt like hours, trying to make them real in his mind. Dead he could believe, dead had been written and said and repeated over and over again until it had lost all meaning. But goneness, the actual physical absence of his brother for the rest of his life, that George could not begin to comprehend. He and Fred were a pair, always, Fred was his constant companion since birth, to fight and talk and prank and joke and laugh with. He couldn't imagine life without him.

But it was more than that, more than the sheer incomprehensibility of Fred's absence. Because Fred didn't really feel gone. George still felt he was just around the corner, or out of the room somewhere, carrying on as he always had. Even in his memories, he couldn't grasp onto any specific instant he spent with Fred- Fred would always have just left the conversation, or be a face in the crowd, or just a silent bystander, a part of George like his ear that he never took the time to notice or think about until it was gone.

And it wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair that he didn't get to keep anything of Fred except the unsettling feeling that someone was missing.

It wasn't fair that he should be teased by the feeling of his presence when he knew it was not possible, that it would never happen again.

It wasn't fair that it was Fred who had to die, Fred's life which was finite and fixed forever now. Fred was the funny one, the lively one, the one who came up with all of the schemes and dragged George, laughing, in his wake. If George had died, Fred would've been sad, he knew he would, but he would've found a way to cheer the rest of his family up, would have the strength to reopen the shop or visit his family again or even smile for Merlin's sake.

George couldn't do any of that. He couldn't face any of his family when he knew they'd be thinking of one thing when they looked at him. When he knew he'd always unconsciously think of his family as a family of nine, and feel the hole where the ninth should've been. When he couldn't even visit his house anymore. The flat was bad enough, but at least it was safe from well-meaning intruders and they hadn't been living in it long enough for lasting memories.

George buried his face in his hands, feeling tears prickle behind his eyes at the thought of all the time they hadn't spent living in this flat. Somehow they gave him a rush of self-loathing. He was stronger than this, he was an adult and had been for a while, he wasn't just some angsty fifth-year. He was hurting his family more by staying away, he should just go to them. Maybe have a good cry, and things would start being all right again, just like in the stories.

And yet he couldn't bring himself to walk out of his door. Because wouldn't it hurt them more to see Fred crying than to not see Fred at all?

Fred was dead.

It was a most unusual feeling, being dead. It wasn't at all like being a ghost, or at least what he imagined being a ghost was like. For one thing, ghosts were visible. They could move around freely and talk to each other and interact with people, and it was like they never died, except for the whole being-dead thing. For another, he didn't feel any cold, unpleasant feeling when he passed through things. In fact, he didn't feel anything at all. Fred still wasn't convinced that he wasn't just in a prolonged dream about his death, probably the product of some long-repressed feeling of inferiority or lust for Severus Snape. Who could say?

Either way, he wanted out. Being left alone with his thoughts had never been a good thing for him.

He hadn't even realized it at first. He'd been rocked by the explosion, felt like he was puking and breaking and jolting away, and when he'd opened his eyes, he saw Percy, Harry, and Ron kneeling over a body identical to his own.

His first thought had been confusion and terror, because why had George been there? Silently, he had joined them, too upset to correct them when they called the corpse the wrong name, or to notice how their eyes slid past him and he couldn't feel anything anymore-

(Probably just shock, his brain had told him, still in denial. Or was it his brain? Who even knew anymore?)

And then the Great Hall, when George had seen his body on the ground, and the look on his face, and that's when Fred realized.

He remember shouting George's name over and over again until his voice cracked as his brother ran to his body. He remembered wanting to comfort, and wanting comfort, as he saw around him his devastated family and the bodies of the other dead and Harry, Harry looking so brokenhearted at all that had been sacrificed to beat Voldemort and (in Harry's thoughts) of all who had died for him...

But other than that, being dead was pretty great, thank you very much.

All it really needed was an instruction manual. For example, what was he and why wasn't he a ghost or a poltergeist? And where was everyone else? Hundreds had died at the Battle of Hogwarts, where were Remus and Tonks and Colin and Lavender and, Merlin forbid, U-No-Poo himself?

More importantly, what was he supposed to be doing here, watch his brother suffer for all of eternity? Was this some kind of Hell?

(For, after the battle was over and the castle had been vacated temporarily while everyone went back to their families, Fred had floated around in the halls a little bit, trying to talk to Peeves and the ghosts and anyone else he came across to see if they heard. No one did. He spent a few fruitless days there before suddenly finding himself in his and George's new flat, the one they'd moved to during the war to stay out of sight, watching his brother sit alone at the table. What had caused the change?)

"Death really needs some sort of guide." he muttered. As always when he spoke, he watched George, hoping for some kind of response, but there wasn't any. George just sat at the table, wiping at his face, and suddenly Fred couldn't bear it anymore. He was going to get some answers.

"Did you hear me, death? I asked for some help." he called loudly. Still no response, either from George or anyone else.

"Will someone please HELP ME?" he shouted. Silence. Frustrated, Fred turned to leave, and nearly ran into a stout, well-dressed man in a bowler hat.

Fred felt a jolt- for a moment, it seemed like the man was looking at him. He tried to push through the man in leave and instead connected with something very solid.

"Hello, Fred." said the man.