A/N: Well, I haven't been in a good mood lately. With my forgotten obsession with the twins rediscovered and that because my birthday is today, 9th December, I feel that writing this is something that I must do. A birthday present for me from me, and a thank you gift for ciaoheiji, ilovestrawberryandfreesia, sparkleunderthemidnightsun and chibidinda. Tysm for the magazine, and the deathly hallows jacket =)) So. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: Do not own Harry Potter though I wish of it every night.
"What am I supposed to do when the best part of me was always you?"
The Script, Breakeven.
He felt numb. He did not know what he was doing there, standing in the middle of the deserted street of Knockturn alley. He was heading to The Burrows, he remembered. Because tomorrow is his birthday and he had promised his mother that he would spend the night before it with his family. His first birthday without Fred. Ah, he was running away, he mused. As the Diagon alley was far too crowded and he suddenly started to feel that panic rising up in his throat so he had ran and ran until he had reached that small secluded alley where he thought he would be safe. Safe from that stomach churning of panic. Safe from those sodding people. Safe from the sound of laughter. Safe from the sound of his laughter ringing in his mind.
"Curse you Fred," George Weasley murmured heavily to the air in front of him. It was cold that night and his breath had formed fog, so he silently watched as they slowly disappeared in the darkness of the night.
He had never felt this lonely. Not even when he had woken up in the middle of every night when once or twice Ginny had not slipped the sleeping potion into his pumpkin juice. Ginny always came by every night to have dinner – she claimed that no one would like to eat her cooking because they said that it was horrid – George detected this lie easy enough, her cooking was great. He knew that she was worried, that everyone else was also worried sick about him – but bloody hell. He just could not do it. Everything's different without Fred. He always pretended that he did not notice his sister pouring the fluid in though, keeping his mouth shut and smiling well naturedly. Because he was actually grateful for it, since it was better than having to wake up in the middle of the night and stare at the empty bed next to his. He felt a pang of sadness – of course, and sometimes even guilt. Guilt caused by what he did not know. Maybe it was because he was the one who survived when it was supposed to be the two of them cheering everyone else after that sick arse Voldemort was defeated.
But now it was quite the contrary, since he seemed to be the one who needed to be cheered, the one who was bringing everyone's moods down.
Fred would scold him for it. He knew his brother would do it without hesitation. In fact, he could imagine him clearly.
He could see it in his mind, resembling a hazy dream.
Fred would cross his arms and cocked his head a bit to the left, eyes glinting with mirth in his voice – the voice that George would never hear again – reminding him playfully that it was Percy's job to depress people, and that theirs was to lighten them up. He would also smirk and pretend that he was thinking, wondering aloud whether it would be wise for him to replace his dearest humorless brother with his best friend Lee Jordan for the sake of the prankster world.
He seemed so real in his mind.
George reached his hand forward, because in his eyes – there he was, the resemblance of himself minus a hole on the side of his head was standing, mocking him. 'Why don't you go and be with Moaning Myrtle, George? I'm sure she would fancy having someone as mopey as her around.'
His face.
His voice.
His laugh.
His twisted sense of humor.
"Fred—" George clasped his hand on what was supposed to be his twin's pale arm, but instead, he felt nothing but the emptiness and the bit of warmth from his fingers touching his own skin. He blinked. Realizing what he was doing; he quickly yanked his hand back, shocked.
He stumbled to the wall next to him, and he slid down, sitting on the dirty ground. His back was against the black icy cold stone wall and he wrapped his trembling hands around his knees.
Sometimes he forgot that Fred was dead.
On rare occasions, he would wake up in a better mood than usual, and he would roll over on his bed and speak out loud, "Good morning, Fred!"
But then he would be greeted by the sight of Fred Weasley's bed, unoccupied for such a long time.
It actually happened more than twice.
Once, it happened when he was at The Burrows.
He was answering the questions everyone threw at him about his re-opened joke shop, and then somehow he had unconsciously stopped in the middle of the sentence, and he had grown silent, as if he was waiting for someone to finish that sentence for him before he glanced to his left and felt his heart clenched as he saw that no one was standing next to him to finish his sentence. Not wanting to damage the mood, he had quickly continued his speech to cover his pause. But it was too late, the damage had been done.
Molly Weasley's sobbing was heard throughout the night.
He hated being like that, being the one who ruined everything for everyone.
The pale young man shuddered, because the cold was suddenly too much for him to bear.
Maybe he should go to The Burrows; everyone is waiting for him….
George looked up to the starry sky.
But then again, he was not waiting for him and that's a whole different situation.
And then he heard a pop – the sound of someone apparating not far from where he was curled. His breath hitched. The sound came from behind the wall on which he was leaning at. He tensed abruptly, suddenly on alert because since the very first time he had stepped into Knockturn alley, the building was never used. He crouched, turning his head to peer into the building from a crack on the wall.
Mind you, he had excellent eyesight. But even he had to struggle to make out who the person in the shadows was. Furrowing his eyebrows, his eyes finally adjusted themselves to the utter darkness of the room, and his eyes narrowed as he saw who the person actually was.
Short legs, long straggly ginger hair and bloodshot baggy eyes. His face was unshaven, and those ugly oversized coat was still slung over his shoulder as usual.
Mundungus.
He did not know what had pursued him to do it. Was it the rage that had suddenly appeared out of no where? All he knew was that he had leaped off to his feet, ran to the direction of the house's door, and before he could even register what had happened, he had already barged in with his wand pointed at the terrified figure.
The short man pulled his wand out of his ugly robe, but George was quicker.
"Expelliarmus!"
He caught Mundungus' wand with ease, years of quidditch practise paying off. The thief was shaking from head to toes, but George felt nothing close to pity for the man in front of him.
The room was small, and there was nothing inside of it except for a wooden table in the middle of the room.
Mundungus looked up, and George could see that he had visibly relaxed. "Oh, it's you."
George quirked an eyebrow, hands clenching tight around the wooden stick he was holding. "Who did you expect to see, Dung?"
The small man snorted, before he quickly scampered off to his feet, dusting the thick layer of dust from his clothes. "No one, no one."
And then the question slipped from his lips, just like that. If he had not heard his own voice saying it and had not seen Mundungus' face drained off its color, he probably would not even know he had said it.
"Where were you at the war, Dung?"
Mundungus eyes were wild as they surveyed his surroundings for an escape route. But it was for no avail, of course for George was a way better wizard than him.
"Where were you when we were fighting?"
He had almost blurted, where were you when my brother was killed? But he decided against it and instead, he stepped forward and kicked Mundungus on the shin, making him doubled over in pain.
The man in front of him smelt like strong drink and stale tobacco. The scent almost made George sick, and if it was not for the blinding rage, he may have collapsed due to the pounding headache he suddenly felt.
"I-I had no choice." He sputtered.
"No choice?" George repeated roughly. Mundungus was a bloody coward for disappearing like that, when everyone needed help the most, when their loved ones were injured, when lives were taken—Fred . . .
"You-you're young, you—you do not know what war—could do to people,-and "he backed away to the wall as George cornered him, stepping smoothly to the end of the room.
He laughed dryly. "Trust me Dung. I know a bloody more than you do."
His eyes were drawn to a worn out bad which was laying forgotten on the table, and he spat out coldly. "What's that, Dung? Stolen properties?"
Mundungus quickly opened his mouth to protest, but George had beaten him from it. "Accio bag."
The bag flew itself to his open grasp, but Mundungus, seeing this opportunity, flung his body to him with such force that George stumbled backwards. Mundungus punched him once in the face, and George clenched his jaw, struggling to push the man off him.
Mundungus grabbed for his wand which was clenched tightly by George's left hand and the red head threw it away from him to redirect the filthy man's frantic movement away from him.
It worked because the tobacco scented man scrambled hurriedly off him, running blindly to where his wand was laying.
George get back to his feet, standing albeit a little shakily. He raised his wand just in time to block the curse that Mundungus had cast.
"Protego," his voice quivered just the slightest bit , and the blue light hit red. George somehow had no doubt that the red light was dark magic, and as the lights began to fade a little, he expertly twisted his wand and yelled, "Stupefy!"
But Mundungus dodged the spell, cast a final terrified glance at the red haired young man and before the fuming young man could register what was going on, the thief - Mundungus Fletcher, had already disapparated away from him. Leaving him standing in the middle of the room lit by nothing but moon light. Alone.
George let out a cry of despair. How could he be so reckless and let him escape? He swung his fist to the stone wall besides him. And it hurts, but somehow it was better than the feeling of failure wrenching his gut. That self coincited jerk had caused Mad Eye's death.
He felt blood trickled down from his scarred knuckles, and he gazed down at his hand unwillingly. He knew that he ought to fix it somehow, after all, he could not come to the burrows with his hand in that state. Maybe a simple spell, or whatever it was that Fred used to do whenever an experiment had gone wrong. But it was Fred. George absolutely had no knowledge of it or whatsoever. His brother did. He knew everything.
His vision blurred, and he inhaled sharply. Maybe he should go to the Burrows now...there's no doubt that Kingsley will be there-the Minister of magic had found a new hobby to come by-and then he could hand over Mundungus' stuffs. His eyes darted to the pouch which was left behind by the man who he had just fought with. No doubt that it was full of stolen things. Sighing, he picked it up. He was about to apparate to the Burrows when his eyes caught the sight of something glittering in the bottom of the pouch. Quirking his eyebrow, he reached into the small bag and pulled out a vial bottle.
"Poison?" He murmured to himself, watching as the red liquid inside it shone.
He was about to put the small bottle back when his eyes saw something else inside the bag. Is that...what he really think it is?
His heart beats faster, and he slowly pulled the thing out. He raised it to his eye level, and suddenly he couldn't breathe. Because what it was, the thing that he was clutching between his fingers...the ressurrection stone.
What's that thief doing with it? His mind was suddenly filled with questions. Last he heard, the stone, the locket, and the elder wand was burried together with Dumbledore after the war.
But all those thoughts turned deaf, because of a name, his name, surfaced. Fred.
He was suddenly excited. Eager, even. For now he was holding something that would finally reunite him with his twin, and with that everything would be back to normal.
And then he was smiling, the first time he had truly smiled since that cursed day.
But it was too bad, because instead of a happy smile, it was a slow, crazed smile.
Fred. The name repeats itself in his mind, like a chant. Fred. Fred. Fred. Fred. Fred. Fred. Fred. Fred.
And then George Weasley apparated. Leaving the previously deserted room, empty once more.
It was raining.
But this fact was barely registered by George, for he was now as excited as a child who had been promised a new toy, not thinking about anything except of what he's going to have.
He crossed the lawn, taking long strides to reach his destination as soon as possible. Fred was burried on a hill, the hill where he and George used to play together when they were little. It used to be their secret hideouts. Their own. Theirs. Not his. Theirs.
He had argued heatedly with his parents about Fred's burrial. They wanted him to be remembered as a hero, so they had persuaded him to let them bury his twin with others who had been defeated in the battle. But he had replied, crestfallen. "He is my brother. He is my twin. I want to remember him as what he is, someone who is always there whenever I need him."
They had relented then.
Maybe, just maybe, it was because of the tense he had unconsciously used. Present. Not past. Because he was not ready to admit Fred's departure, to admit that he will never taste the sweetness of having a twin.
But he guessed-no, he knew, that he would never ever get used to it.
Suddenly the steps that he was taking felt too slow, and the distance between him and his brother felt too far. And to think it was the closest they had ever been in the past four months.
His eyes were wild with excitement, and his fingers were clenched around the small pouch so tight that his knuckles turned white. His face was maroon because of the cold, and his fiery hair was probably the only thing that was spottable in the rain soon to be storm.
And then there he was, standing, in front of his brother's grave.
He took a deep breath, and his eyes softened. With his hand reaching out to touch the cold headstone, he whispered softly, "Hey Fred."
A whisper that was lost in the rain.
To be continued.