Disclaimer: I don't own them, i couldn't, they're much too real to me.

TWO MINUTES' SILENCE FOR FRED WEASLEY.

Good Morning, all of you. It's so heartening to see you've all come down today. I must say there are many, many more people present than anyone expected.

My name, as I'm sure most of you know, is George Weasley. We are all gathered here today in the memory of Fred Weasley, my twin, my brother, my best friend.

Fred and I were born on the first of April, 1978. An apt date, to be sure, as most people said. Fred was the older twin, born three minutes before me. We grew up in a large family of nine, and yet remained joint at the hip, like one entity, a person with two heads and one personality. More often than not, the family ganged up against us; we were a bit of a... ehm, handful. Mum in particular was known to have yelled her head off on occasion, bless her. We weren't model children, you know. Not like our Hermione, sitting yonder. We got six owls between us, in all. Our ambition (yes, we had just one ambition between us as well), was not to become an Auror, or an Unspeakable, but to open a joke shop. We spent years still at Hogwarts, perfecting the Skiving Snackboxes and joke wands that are so popular now. We did, finally end up opening the Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, as you all know, and it was mostly thanks to the immense backing and support of Harry Potter himself. Yes, Dad, Harry gave us his Triwizard winnings. What? What's that? Yes, we took them. Well, he made us. Wouldn't take no for an answer! Paying him back though, aren't we? Harry doesn't pay at the shop, you know. We don't let him. Well, we didn't let him. Now, only I don't let him. Don't Mum. Don't cry. You know Fred wouldn't have wanted us to cry. He's probably flabbergasted that we're so very upset over him.

I mean it, the lot of you. I cried, you know, a bit. Losing part of your identity, the one thing that's always been constant about your life can be a bit of a shocker. But then I got an epiphany-- it was more of a mental image, actually-- of Fred, laughing his arse-- sorry, Mum-- off at me.

"George!" he said, snickering in the git-like way that was so peculiar to him. "George! What's this? Are you weeping over my corpse like a little sissy? Pull yourself together! Voldemort's gone! Drink some firewhiskey! Pick up a girl! Pick one up for me too! What are you waiting for, you little moron?"

And I thought to myself, "Blimey, Fred, for once you're actually right!"

Because, people, Fred was not the sort of person who'd want you to huddle around his sickbed and cry till your eyes fall out. He died fighting, just like he'd always wanted, just like a true member of the house he's played quidditch for, for six whole years. He died fighting, and is probably throwing a tantrum up there because we haven't put his name up on a war memorial yet, or named a ward in St. Mungo's after him or something. It's okay to laugh, Dennis, don't cover it up. Fred would've rather people laughed at his funeral than cried, any day.

It's easier for me, I don't need Fred to be around to know exactly what he'd say to something, so when something worth mocking comes around, the Fred part of me makes a joke in my head, and the George part of me follows it up out loud.

But I still miss him.

We all miss him. He was joy, life, laughter, all wrapped up in one package.

Don't cry, Angelina. I know Fred would laugh at me, but it might really make him unhappy to watch you cry. He always got a little more serious around you.

Look, everyone, I can almost see Fred asking me if I'm done waxing lyrical about him, so I'm going to end my little speech here.

Fred was a wonderful, warm, funny, humorous, lively, good-hearted person whom we all loved, and we will all miss him. Now I'd like to ask everyone present to stand up and offer two minutes' silence for Fred Weasley.