AN: Hey everyone, this is just a quick look into George's thinking after Fred's funeral. I don't think I'll write more for this. The only other idea I have in terms of George is a fight between him and Harry, and that fight ends up being pretty explosive. But I might just upload that as another one shot. Enjoy!
Breathing deeply, George closed the door to his room at the Burrow, pressing his forehead against it. He knew this day had to pass at some point. He knew he would have to see himself being lowered into the ground, hear his friends talk about him; remember what life was like as a whole instead of a half. It had been harder than he expected. His mother had clung to him as if he was life itself. His father couldn't stop looking at him. Lee was crying; Lee, the eternally happy Lee, was crying. George couldn't believe it when he saw it. George had almost even made fun of Lee; he was just waiting for Fred to start it.
George hadn't cried. He had breathed deeply, as he had done now. When he wasn't wrapped in his mother's arms or holding his father's gaze, all George could do was look at him. His brother. Himself. How could Fred have died without him dying too? How did one twin live without the other? Now George was George, just George, not Fred and George, but just George; he was singular, he lost his pair.
George turned around to face his cramped and crowded room. Living at their flat and then at their Aunty Muriel's, George had almost forgotten all of their left over merchandise and broken experiments were stored here. He thought it was fitting that he be here now. Not because it was his room and he was living at the Burrow again, but because he was left over, he was broken. He fit in here.
Alone.
There was no one to clutch at him. No one to stare at him, searching for Fred in George's eyes. No. The only things leering at him here were his memories. George walked the short three steps to his bed and sat down, staring at the empty bed across from his. George could see Fred there, tossing a ball from one hand to another, talking about his Yule Ball night with Angelina. Fred was smiling and winking suggestively. George knew they hadn't really done anything, but Fred wanted to impress George, and George had let him.
George looked away. On the wall behind Fred's bed—no wait, George reminded himself, it was just a bed now, not Fred's—on the wall behind the bed there were a scorch marks. George told him, he told Fred, not to light that firework in their room, mum would kill them if she found out, but Fred hadn't listened, he just smirked at George and lit it anyway. George followed the scorch marks up the wall and to the ceiling smiling slightly at the thought of the pinwheel zooming along.
George let his eyes wander around their room for a moment longer: The smell of sick never really left the closet where Fred and George had experimented with the puking pastilles, the crack in the wall next the window where George was punched in the face by one of their joke telescopes, a wide water stain on Fred's desk from a thawing bottle of Fire Whiskey—they had been sick that night for an entirely different reason.
George could hear his family members coming up the stairs. Every time it sounded as if the person stopped on his landing. They probably stared at his door. George could envision them raising their hands to knock but never really mustering the courage to actually do it. That was ok with George. All he wanted right now was to just be alone with his memories anyway; they were so much easier to face than his family.
George looked over at the bed across from him again. He wondered how long it would take for him to get used to articulating every thought he had instead of speaking in half sentences. He wondered how the shop would be able to function without business minded Fred around. Most of all, though, he wondered how he could ever feel whole again if all he had was himself and a ghost.
He wasn't necessarily angry at Fred for leaving. Fred and he had both known the risks involved in this fight. If George was being honest with himself, he knew he really shouldn't have been as mad at Harry as he was either—Harry hadn't dragged them into this; Fred and George had leapt into the war without looking where they would land until they were in too deep, and there was no turning back at that point.
George supposed he was just angry. Angry because he was alone now. And George was sad—worse than sad, George was depressed. He could imagine Fred laughing at him, making fun of his lousy mood and pulling out a bottle of Fire Whiskey from his nightstand drawer. Actually, now that George thought about it, there was probably still Fire Whiskey in his brother's nightstand drawer, left over from their younger years and sleep overs with Lee. Yes. That would do the trick and put George to sleep rather quickly and sleep was just about what he needed right now.
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