George was never supposed to be alone. From the day he was born, he was part of a set. The only pictures Mum even had of George were the ones of Fred and him. In most of them, they had identical smirks. He pulled out the photo of 10-year-old twins. They were wearing the signature Weasley sweaters, the wrong ones, but everything was simpler for Gred and Forge. Together nothing could go wrong.
They had just rigged the dungbomb under Great Aunt Muriel's chair. They waited impatiently. George kept bouncing his fingers on the table. Fred began to tell a story to Ron about Hogwarts disregarding the fact that he hadn't even gone yet. Charlie was trying to prevent any serious mental scarring.
"Ron, you don't have to fight a troll. Fred, stop trying to frighten him," Charlie scolded.
"Why do you think I'm Fred? I'm George," Fred said using their signature joke.
Charlie gave a suspicious shrug. "Sure you are."
"Of course I am. I should know my own name," Fred elbowed George. "So Fred, how long do you think we have?"
"Until it happens or until the person erupts when it happens?" asked George speaking cryptically around their elder brothers' accusing eyes.
They both thought for a second before together they said, "The eruption."
Then it happened the scent of dung filled the air. Thick gray smog coated everything, especially their much-hated Great Aunt. She shrieked, rising from her chair. Muriel ran for the door with surprising agility for someone claimed to be at the age of 100. She was never coming back for Christmas dinner and that was just how every liked it.
Mum started shrieking nearly as loud as Muriel. It must run in the family. "Frederick Gideon! George Fabian! What did you do?"
Just about a year later, they were ready to go to Hogwarts. Fred and George had been up early. Mum had packed their trunks in hopes of keeping any of their prank products out of Hogwarts. They were trying to write the wrong. Handfulls of stink pellets, dungbombs and fanged Frisbees were being shoved into available space and into several pairs of socks.
"Fred! George! Get down here! You're going to miss the train! It never took so long for Bill to get ready. " Mum called up the stairs.
The platform seemed a lot smaller now that it was their turn to go. The scarlet steam engine rested in front of them, not exactly prepared for what the Weasley twins could do. Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.
Fred pointed at the front compartment. Bill had said that was the Prefect's compartment. George nodded. It was time to set their plan into action.
Well almost time, first they had to deal with their overbearing mother, crying about how fast they had grown up.
Fred was dead. George saw his body clearly when he closed his eyes. It haunted his nightmares at night. George had to find his own person. There was no longer any "and" in his name. "Fred and George" had died in the Battle of Hogwarts. George had almost died too. It really was a miracle they hadn't lost more.
For a long time, the Weasleys did lose George. He didn't laugh. He didn't smile. He sat on Fred's bed and was absent to the world.
The best way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost. The whole family had been prepared with the war going on. There were times when George knew it could all come to an end, but realizing it and accepting it were two very different things.
Written for a-trip-to-honeydukes Best Friends Competition Take Two. My friends were Fred and George.