George walked solemnly towards the crowded living room. He could see that it was full of redheads, much like he was before his twin had died two years previously. Since then, he had resolved to die his ginger hair a dark shade of brown. He didn't want to look in a mirror and see his brother. He wanted to look as different as possible.
Apart from changing his hair colour, George had used complex transfiguration to disfigure his face. It was now thin and sallow, thereby matching how he felt on the inside – depleted and grey. His mother, though deeply depressed and appalled at the idea, did nothing to stop him. Deep within her heart, she knew that George's ideas were what he wanted.
Having now reached the entrance to the living room, a tidal wave of dread overcame him. What was he going to do? Last year's birthday had been horrible. After cutting his extravagant birthday cake, George had broken down completely. Kneeling before his brothers and sisters, he had released all of his emotions: grief at the loss of his twin brother – the other half of his soul, regret, for not having saved him, and embarrassment for not being able to withhold his feelings in front of his deeply sympathetic guests.
How was he going to spend this huge milestone – his twenty-first birthday – without the one with whom he had planned it?
With this horrible thought now in mind, George staggered into the room, and, to his own mortification, began to weep. He couldn't control himself. He longed desperately to have his brother there with him, and he knew that crying would get him nowhere, yet he let the mournful tears flow.
Immediately, his mother dashed towards him, as she was the only one who could ever calm him. Next to hurry forward was Ron, who was the most sympathetic of his siblings. Within moments, a huge wave of redheads was upon George, each trying in their own way to calm him.
It took several minutes to calm him down, though he continued to make threats upon his own life. With much difficulty, they managed to tug George to his feet, and Molly steered him over to a blemished table and sat him down in a rickety seat.
'Are you all right, dear? It's okay n-now. Fred's gone, there's nothing you – or we – can do about it. Calm down, George, it's okay n-now,' Molly said, attempting, but failing, to implement a reassuring tone.
'Mum, he's – he's gone. R – really gone, isn't he?' George managed to say, though his voice shook uncontrollably.
'Yes, Georgie.'
Molly had made a tremendous mistake: she had used the nickname Fred had given him. At the mention of this name, George collapsed. He fell in a crumpled heap to the ground, sobbing without end.
Now realising her mistake, Molly commenced her apologies, though she knew it was pointless. Resigning herself to having to look after George for the remainder of the night, Molly dismissed her guests, and, understandingly, they didn't make a fuss. Soon the only people in the living room were George, now crying hysterically, Molly, attempting to comfort him, and the rest of the Weasley family, apart from Fred, whose clock hand had been removed from their wizarding clock, and was forever resting beneath George's bed, which he tossed and turned in every night.