Split, a harry potter fanfic

They had split up. To cover more ground, to defend more entrances to the castle. George didn't know exactly how it had happened, it just had. An unsaid understanding between the two. He'd nodded at Fred, who had winked back and dashed off down a corridor.

George turned and ran outside to fight the steady stream of invading Death Eaters. He fought them all off with the twirl and crack of his wand, with fireworks and other Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes products. Each time he threw something new and unexpected at a Death Eater, the shock plain on their faces, George couldn't help but wonder what Fred was doing in the castle. Who was watching his back? Who was warning him "Fred, behind you!". Because this time, it wasn't George.

Suddenly, a loud, ear-splitting BANG! came from within the castle and echoed all around the Hogwarts grounds. There had been other explosions that George had seen and heard, but this one seemed different. The sound of it filled his head, and there seemed to be a long, prolonged silence afterwards. He froze, turning to look back at the castle. There was no new gaping hole in one of the towers; the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall hadn't caved in. A flood of memories suddenly invaded George's thoughts, coupled with an intense pain.

They were learning to walk together, falling over on each other constantly and giggling.

They were running around the Burrow, teasing Ron and getting on Percy's nerves.

They were learning how to fly, learning how to play Quidditch, learning how to use their wands.

They were inventing and testing in their small cramped room that was just the right size.

They were laughing at themselves, laughing at each other, laughing at the world.

They were swapping Christmas sweaters.

They were escaping Hogwarts, creating a historical rampant chaos that would be forever remembered.

They were twins.

Suddenly, the memories shifted and George sank to the dust-covered grass, holding his head in agony.

He was running into the Burrow, as fast as his legs would carry him. There he was; lying there, half his head covered in blood. He ran towards his twin, his best friend and knelt at his side. He saw the gaping hole in his head, how pale his face was, and worried for a moment that his closest friend might be dead. He waited in the moment between two shallow breaths; he waited for the rise of George's chest, the flutter of his eyelids.

He was shooting jinxes and spells everywhere, trying to protect his brother in the chaos. A Death Eater raised his wand and directed it at the earless twin, showing the glint of an evil smile through his hood. Fred roared "Protego!" and sighed in relief as the spell rebounded and hit the Death Eater square in the chest.

He was running away from his twin, down a corridor and towards a new fight. He was wondering who would protect George, who would protect him when he wasn't there. He understood that they needed to be separated, that they were the only two who knew every single entrance, and they needed to spread the word, cast protection spells. Everything. But that didn't mean that he wasn't terrified, leaving his unbalanced twin out there with the Death Eaters.

He was being thrown backwards, into an inconceivable darkness. He reached out to grab on to anything, anything at all. His hands wouldn't move, he had no command over his body. As the darkness closed in around him, he had time for one thought. "George…", and his wand acted of its own accord. It whipped around in his lifeless hand, conjuring something silver and wispy. He never felt his body hit the ground.

George opened his eyes. His mind was racing. Maybe a Death Eater had Confunded him. Maybe he was dead, not… not…it simply could not be. He couldn't sense the hooded figure that approached on his left. He couldn't see the wand that was raised, for his head was buried in his hands. Out of nowhere, he thought he heard Fred's voice. He thought he heard his twin brother yelling out a battle cry. He looked up, looked around him, his eyes searched hungrily for his twin. A silvery figure of some kind was running towards him from across the grounds. It arrived in front of George in no time. It was a silvery lion made of smoke, which let out a great and terrible roar. The lion started to glow, and the evil on the grounds bowed down in the presence of its light. Death Eaters crumbled before staring Hogwarts students and teachers alike. The Death Eaters let out terrible screams when the lion glowed white hot. George stared. For a moment, before it vanished, he could see himself in the glowing light. The only difference was, he wasn't missing an ear. George reached out to touch his twin, his reckless other half, when the light vanished and the grounds were dark and gloomy again.

He sprinted full on towards the castle, stumbling from time to time because of his earless imbalance. His chest was heaving as he covered the distance between him and the one person he had known for all his life. The one person who knew him best. He ran through the blazing castle doors, up the marble stairs, not bothering to try to dodge killing curses, jinxes, people in his way. He pushed past it all and ran through corridor after corridor, searching for the explosion. George came to a halt in front of a mess of rubble and a red-haired cluster of men. They were prying one man off the other. Maybe they were fighting. Maybe the man on the floor would stand up, dust himself off, and say "Hey, there, Georgie!". George slowed to a walk, slow and solemn, towards the red-haired men. As he came closer, he could make out what the man on the floor was wearing. He couldn't see his face, there were too many surrounding him. But he could see the man's shoes; identical to his own. He could see the man's messy hair, the way it was parted. As his brothers moved out of the way to take cover, leaving the body behind, George found he knew very well who it was.

He slowed his walk down even more, his gaze locked on the corpse on the floor. It might have been him on the floor, all but for the ear, because everything that made Fred Fred was gone. There was an insane smile on his face, but his blue eyes lost their shine. This body had lost whatever it was that was the essence of Fred. When George finally reached the corpse, he sank down to his knees. He closed his twin's empty eyes. The insane smile was grinning up at him, however. It was terrible to look at. He gently smoothed out his twin's face and hair. He could almost be sleeping. George knelt there beside his twin, and thought he heard Ron's voice behind him, yelling "I want to help, I wanna kill Death Eaters!" in a hoarse voice. He didn't bother turning to look, because the only thing that mattered right now was right in front of him. His dead twin. An impossible concept, an idea that betrayed everything he grew up knowing. George looked down at his brother, his best friend, the best part of himself, and let out a wounded, strangled cry, letting the idea sink into his skin like acid. Fred was gone. This wasn't a nightmare. This wasn't a cruel spell, or a cruel trick. He picked his brother up, cradling the lifeless body. He stood up, and his knees shook– his weight was now doubled exactly. He carried Fred through the wreckage, shielding him from falling debris and jinxes. George half hoped that he would be hit by a killing curse on his way out; he didn't even bother defending himself.

"Oi, Fred!" a familiar voice called from behind him. Lee Jordan. George couldn't bear to turn around, but he did. Once Lee saw the side of his head, he knew which twin he was calling out to. And then his eyes found Fred, limp in George's arms. "No…" Lee whispered. Then Lee shot a curse over George's shoulder, incapacitating a Death Eater who was aiming at them. "Move!" Lee cried out, and he made to help George carry his other half. George shook his head, and stumbled down a side corridor and into an abandoned classroom. George regretfully laid Fred on the desk, and whispered, "I'll come back for you." He dashed out to join the fight once more, not daring to think about anything else other than protecting what was left of his family.

SPLITSPLITSPLIT

The battle was won. It was over. There was celebration and mourning operating full speed in the same room. The Great Hall was filled with a jumbled assortment of ecstasy and grief. There was a delightful laughter that masked every cry of agony, every sob. Tears were outshone by smiles. Did anyone care that he was gone? Tonks, Lupin, Colin Creevy and dozens of others, too? Didn't anyone realize the price of winning? Once the battle was won and all the remaining Death Eaters had been rounded up, George walked slowly to retrieve his brother. Each and every step he took towards his dead twin came with a piercingly painful memory.

The melody of the funeral march they had sang the school song to in their third year echoed inside his head. He could hear their voices, twined in unison, finishing the song last. Dumbledore had conducted their last few verses respectfully, while some students held back peals of laughter.

Once he reached the classroom, and walked over to the table, the emotions washed over him again, just as strong as the first time. But he didn't sink to the floor. He didn't cry out in agony. He picked his brother up and carried him to the Great Hall, where all the other bodies were, so that he could be with those who had loved him most. When he entered the Great Hall, the room didn't fall silent, as it should have. He wanted to scream, "Don't you remember him?". He approached his family, none of whom he had spoken to since finding Fred. He laid Fred down in front of his parents on a great wooden table. After laying him down, he whispered, "Looks like you're the holy one now…" Although the expression had long faded from Fred's face, George could have sworn that he saw the familiar lips twitch up in a smile.

SPLITSPLITSPLIT

Sometimes, his mother would set one extra place at the dinner table. Everyone pretended like they didn't notice, and a flustered Mrs. Weasley would turn scarlet red and then a pale, pale white. Almost every time, when she snatched the plate back, it would fall to the floor and shatter. His mother never mended the shards back together. She didn't use magic to clean them up. She would bend down and pick them up piece by piece with a cloth, like something precious. George pretended he didn't notice the tears that fell upon these shards, and the way his mother gently placed them in the trash. George pretended he didn't notice the empty space beside him that occupied Fred's cold wooden chair.

Sometimes, George would rummage through old boxes, things packed up from their room. Most memories of Fred had been erased. One day, he had found the Weasley clock, and almost dropped it when he saw where the hands pointed. Fred's was stuck on "mortal peril", and George's own hand was at "lost".

Sometimes, George would write letters. He'd write everything from small notes to big letters, and then send them with an owl, out to find a non-existent recipient. The bird always came back with the letter, exhausted after days of searching.

Sometimes, his wife would almost call him by another name. Her lips would form around an "F", her lips would curl into a smile, her top teeth would graze her bottom lip. Then she'd catch herself. She'd take another breath. And her lips would curve to a new name, a different name. Always a lesser name, never a name he wanted to hear. His own.

Sometimes, he'd be asked to tell stories. At dinner with his parents, siblings and children, someone would pipe up and beg him to tell the stories. George would smile a bit, and pluck an event from his mind. By the end of it, everyone would be smiling and laughing and remembering. George would smile a small, sad smile. He would laugh a hollow, empty laugh. He would remember everything all over again…