Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Bet you didn't see that coming, did you?
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The Trouble with Moving On
"And here we have our world-famous Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs! Guaranteed to brighten up even the dullest of family gatherings! Oh, excellent choice, my dear! I'll just ring you up and send you on your way. Come back next week; we're getting in a shipment of new products that are to die for! Good night."
George watched the young lady leave his store. Seeing as it was rather late, he closed up shop with a flourish of his wand, locking the door and dimming the lights. Although his eyes could not penetrate the shadows lurking in the corners, he knew just what they hid: fireworks, charms, enchanted candies, all sorts of marvelous novelties and wondrous surprises.
He swung himself up on to the countertop, surveying his domain. The store had grown from a modest little establishment to a thriving enterprise spanning multiple floors and corridors. He had hired several employees to help maintain the store and keep an eye on wayward customers (one could not be too cautious in a shop filled with explosives and magical objects designed for pranksters and troublemakers), but he had dismissed them early that night on a whim.
He had come a long way.
No, that wasn't right. George reached into his pocket and pulled out a yellowed scrap of paper, folded over many times. He held gingerly for a few moments, staring, before beginning to unfold it with the utmost caution, as if afraid of damaging it further. Once unfurled, it was clear that the scrap of paper was in fact a photograph. From the picture a pair of red-headed boys, neither a day over sixteen, waved cheerfully, laughing and playfully poking at each other.
They had come a long way.
George watched as the George in the picture put his brother in a headlock. The picture Fred laughed and responded by good-naturedly pulling George's hair. The pair collapsed in a fit of giggles. The real George watched for a moment longer, a painful smile stretched across his face. Then, unable to bear it any longer, he refolded the photograph and returned it to the folds of his cloak.
It had been many years since You-Know-Who had been defeated. After a moment's shock, George realized that fifteen years had passed. Fifteen years since he had seen his beloved brother and best friend.
Now, everyone had had losses during the battle, some more so than others. It pained George to think of all the mothers being told that their sons were dead, all the husbands being told that their wives would not come home, all the children being told that their parents could not come back. None of them deserved that. No one should have to hear that the one they loved was gone forever.
But, George thought, it was worse for him. They had lost friends, lovers, family. He had lost the person who had been with him through everything: his twin brother. In doing so, he had lost himself.
They had done everything together. Had been integral parts of each other's lives. They could finish each other's sentences; even finish each other's thoughts. Even with five others siblings, no one could understand them the way that they did one another.
That was why George had not moved on after his brother's death. That, also, was why no one had noticed. As his family and friends got married, had children, and found happiness, no one had bothered to ask why George had not done the same. Because George was always laughing. George could make anyone smile. George was never sad.
Except that he was.
No one would ever see him on nights like this, when he sat alone in the dark, tears silently trickling down his face, falling softly onto the countertop that had seen many such nights. It was ironic, he decided, for a man who sold laughter and who was a genius at anything comedic in nature to be so miserable.
He had cut himself off from his family. Not out of cruelty, mind you; he merely desired to avoid the pain of loss that lurked constantly on the edge of his consciousness. He attended any family occasions to which he was invited, always cheerful and charming, making his young nieces and nephews burst with delight at his wonderful tricks. But he never visited them unsolicited. Their happy little families reminded him of what he did not have and could not bring himself to want. The bright red hair of so many of his kin reminded him of what he had lost.
For the same reason, he avoided mirrors. For the longest time, whenever he caught his reflection out of the corner of his eye, he thought it was Fred, hurrying to catch up with him. That it was not became too much to bear after a while.
Rubbing at his eyes gently, he reached behind the counter for a box of tissues. Instead, his hand fell on a letter that had arrived earlier that day along with a parcel. He pulled the letter out, staring at it. Even in the dim light, he recognized the style in which his name was written across the envelope. It was from his mother, but he had neglected to open it earlier out of fear of the emotions that it might elicit.
Next to George, his mother had felt Fred's death most keenly. It was because of that that George avoided her presence as often as possible. He wished to spare her the pain he felt whenever he glimpsed his reflection: the physical reminder of his twin. He had not seen her for over a year now. "Lumos," he whispered. The tip of his wand began to glow cheerily, casting light all around it.With trembling hands, he opened the letter.
'Dear Fred and George,' it said. The middle two words, written out of habit, had been crossed out in earnest as the writer had realized her mistake. Traces of tears still lingered on the page. 'I hope you are well. I miss you terribly, and hope that your busy schedule allows you to come home for a visit soon. You know that you are always welcome.' After this were many more sentences, written and then scribbled out frantically. More tears made the words completely unintelligible. George stared at the lines in vain before coming to the concluding sentences. 'I love you so, so much. Happy birthday. Mom.'
He set the letter aside. Rummaging behind the counter, he located the parcel that had accompanied the letter. He was unsurprised upon opening it to find that it contained a package of homemade fudge and a hand-knitted sweater. The sweater was a stormy grey, devoid of all decoration save a small red heart stitched in to the bottom left corner. He fingered the heart gently before setting the gifts aside next to the letter. With a soft-spoken command, he extinguished the light from his wand and any light remaining in the store. He sat a while longer and stared into the darkness, listening to the silence all around him. The words that George uttered next were barely audible, heard only by George himself and perhaps by the one for whom they were meant.
"Happy birthday, Fred."
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Well, I really hope you liked this little one-shot. Please leave any comments in a review, because I would love to hear from you! Peace!
-Shadow