Author's Note: I like to stalk head canons, and this one seemed popular. I am so very obviously not J.K. Rowling, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. It's unbeta-ed and unedited by me as of now, but I'll probably go through later and rewrite parts. Until then...Happy angsting.
Seven months. More than half of a year. That's how long it had been since the Battle of Hogwarts, since the defeat of You-Know-Who, since the triumph of good over evil. Seven months. Seven very, very long months.
The world had done some recovering in those months. Hogwarts was restored to its former glory. Dementors no longer worked at Azkaban. Former Death Eaters were imprisoned. Loved ones were buried and families were pulling themselves back together. Life was moving on. There was no more fear, no more questions, no more worry about the Dark Lord and where he would strike next. All of that had been put to rest by one boy, one heroic boy. And now, everyone was free to live their lives.
Well, almost everyone. As George looked in the mirror, patting down some hair that was sticking up near the back of his head, he couldn't help but remember that there were some people who didn't live to see this Christmas.
But he couldn't dwell. His mother had really put everyone to work this year. Having everyone back at the Burrow for the first time in months was exciting, and though awkwardness would probably ensue (Harry and Ginny had had quite the nasty split when she'd caught him in a bar with Draco Malfoy, and Hermione and Ron seemed to be struggling through their first roadblocks as a couple) it just wouldn't be a Weasley Christmas without the awkward tension. Not to mention, it was Percy's first real holiday back home, Fleur was something like four months pregnant, and it was rumored that Charlie might not make it back home. And then there was the matter of the empty chair at the dinner table, the Christmas presents that were missing from under the tree, and the figure of a man that was missing from George's side. But he tried not to dwell on that - it ruined everyone else's Christmas cheer to see him so sad.
"George, dear," his mother called, walking up behind him and placing a hand on his back, "Harry and Ron are having trouble in the garden. Could you help them? You and F-" She stopped suddenly. "Well, you were always best at ridding the place of gnomes."
He knew what she meant. He and Fred had always been the best at getting rid of the little buggers. Every holiday, they went out to the garden together and laughed and made bets about who could throw one the farthest out of the garden. The memories hit him one by one, each feeling like a stab in the gut, but he knew that his mother meant no harm. He nodded and wordlessly went out to help his youngest brother with his task, trying painfully not to remember the first time he'd taught the pair waiting for him how to properly de-gnome a garden.
Proper exercise (and a few anger throws that he feared may have further damaged a couple gnomes' skulls) seemed to George some good, though. He came back from the garden with Harry and Ron feeling ten times lighter, almost happier, and Harry even managed to put a smile on his face relaying some of the crackpot stories he heard at the Ministry. And though it was a small smile, it was still improvement, and the trio entered the Burrow again in much higher spirits.
Dinner was fantastic, as usual. His mother wasn't even able to make a meal that was bad, but this particular one was delicious. He didn't eat much, though. Since the war, he'd come to find that his appetite - among other things - had been cut in half. He still tried to laugh, though, to converse with his family, and for the first time in seven months, he almost felt normal. He teased Harry relentlessly throughout the night, conversed lowly with Bill about business at Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes, and even managed to hold a small conversation with Percy, though he didn't dare make eye contact. When they moved to open presents, the looks of pure joy on everyones' faces at the gifts they received were enough to distract him from the hollowness inside for a while. And even if he had no one to there to predict who got who what present with him, he still managed to make a little fun, trying to make such predictions in his head and cheering to himself when he got them right.
And for once in his life, he started to believe things would go back to normal.
Then he saw it. One lonely package, simply wrapped, still sitting underneath the tree. He reached for it, ready to hand it to whoever it belonged to, and the whole room seemed to quiet as he pulled it close and read the name tag.
The entire world seemed to stop; time seemed to freeze. In that moment, there was nothing that could possibly be happening around George that was more important than that present. Carefully, gingerly, he pulled back the white wrapping paper, and he heard his mother say quietly, "Oh no," as he pulled a maroon knit sweater from its wrapping. Stitched carefully on the front in gold was a giant 'F'.
Everyone was quiet. The entire world stopped for George in that moment. Even his heart forgot to stop beating as he ran his fingers over the golden 'F', tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.
"George..." His mother appeared at his side, placing a hand on his shoulder. "George, I-I'm sorry...I didn't even realize that I'd..." She trailed off as she, too, stared down at the sweater, and George gripped the fabric almost angrily in his hands.
"I suppose you just forget, then?" he said bitterly, angrily. "You just went and ruddy forgot that he was...that he'd never...?" He couldn't bring himself to finish and threw the sweater away from him, trying to get it as far from him as possible as tears he'd been holding in for seven long months finally fell. Everyone stared, unsure of what to do or what to say. No one had ever seen George cry before. But if they had moved, it wouldn't have mattered anyway. A second later, George pushed away from his mom, from his family, from this cozy life of fake happiness they had built up trying to convince themselves and the world that things were normal. They had done such a great job, such a splendid job of doing just that very thing. So splendid that they even forget what they had lost.
But he hadn't forgotten. He couldn't. Every time he looked in the mirror, it was a reminder that that was the only way he was going to see himself. Every time he went to buy clothes, it was a reminder that he no longer had to buy two pairs of everything. Every time he left the house, he did so feeling empty and broken without his identical shadow. Every day when he woke up, he knew he was waking up in a world without his twin, and every day for the past seven months he had to sit there alone at the table while he ate his breakfast just trying not to remember, trying not to break down, and failing miserably and every day he had to carry on like it didn't happen, like it didn't even bloody matter because whether he liked it or not, he was still alive and the world kept turning.
But he could never forget. How could anyone forget something like that? How could his family sit there and act like that parcel wasn't a big deal, like it was normal, like they didn't have to make accommodations to deal with what happened? And how could they let him open it? How could they let him face that Fred was no longer there to open his gifts?
So he left. He left the Burrow, he left the hills it sat in, he left London, he left the bloody country, and he left Fred's damn sweater far, far behind him.
Maybe everyone else could play pretend for a while. But he remembered Christmas with Fred. And he remembered that he was never going to have it again.
And god be damned if anyone thought he was going to pretend he didn't.