The ceiling fan above George circled rhythmically, stirring the air and causing a cold chill in the already cool room. It wasn't like the ginger-haired man to allow himself to be alone with his thoughts, but now that he had they were swimming with images and memories. Images of his doppelganger, memories of their shenanigans - the shenanigans he'd given up May 2nd, 1998. The night he lost his other half.
"George," said Fred, "I think we've outgrown a full-time education."
"Yeah, I've been feeling that way myself," said George lightly.
"Time to test our talents in the real world, d'you reckon?" asked Fred.
"Definitely," said George.
And before Umbridge could say a word, they raised their wants and said together, "Accio Brooms!"
George was pacing the floor, wringing his hands as he heard the sounds of Fred II and Roxanne in the living room, playing some sort of Muggle game while Angelina chattered through the mirrors with Fleur, planning their annual summer trip to the cottage by the sea.
"...by behaving like a babbling, bumbling, band of baboons." McGonagall said in a sharp tone.
Fred leaned towards George and whispered, "Try saying that five times fast."
A tear rolled down George's left cheek, dripping onto his grey jumper and turning a small spot a darker shade. The orange G on his chest felt so out of place. What did he need identification for anymore? There was no Gred and Forge to be confused, and with the matching jumper packed in a box in the attic of the burrow he felt odd wearing it.
"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" George shouted in the middle of the night, watching in dismay as the end of his wand produced nothing more than a white spark. His heart felt as though it were sinking in his chest, knowing full well why his wand refused to cast the spell to fend off dementors. All his happy memories were gone, just like Fred.
The fan continued to circle above him, sending a chill down his spine as the memories continued to flood him. Fred's face - identical to his own. Fred's eyes - mirror images of his. Fred's laugh - slightly higher in pitch. Fred's antics- always a little bolder. A little better. Finally, the fan above George slowed to a stop.
Angelina pulled the roast from the oven, dropping it on the white stove stop and calling Fred II and Roxanne to dinner. Then her eyes fell on the closed door. He had been in there for so long, surely he was being tortured by his thoughts. It was fifteen years past that fated night and still he couldn't move past it, the mourning phase was never complete. Just an endless cycle of moping and misery.
"George..." she called, walking around the table as the kids set it. "George, darling, it's time for dinner." Roxanne stopped setting the places to study her mother as she turned the brass knob, pushing the wooden door open.
His feet were three feet from the ground.
