A/N: Ugh, I hated Fred's death. I always end up sobbing, and I needed to do something with all the emotions in me. So I give them to you. I honestly don't have a song for this piece (shocker, I know) but I'd love suggestions. :) Inspired by the lovely viria13's heartbreaking picture: art/whole-world-in-a-mirror-253155132 art (remove spaces and parentheses)
May 3th, 1998.
George gazed at the boy in front of him. There was a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and the shock of red hair at the top of his head proclaimed him a Weasley.
George didn't even know how he had gotten here. He had run away from the crowds, from the grieving people. He couldn't take the sadness and he needed the solitude. But as he wandered the deserted and destroyed hallways of his former school, he found that he didn't really want to be alone, either.
Being alone scared him. He had never been alone before, not really. Fred was always within reach, within call. And now? There was a ghost of heart in George's chest and he doubted it would ever leave. There was a ghost of a shoulder rubbing against his, and he kept turning his head to share this with his brother, his twin, his half. But he wasn't there. Nor would he ever be.
It was this whisper that sent him propelling down the hallways again, sprinting up and down, up and down, hoping and praying that the shortness of breath in his lungs would drive away all thought.
Alas, no. He collapsed on the ground somewhere between anger and sadness and buried his head in his arms.
I just want to see him again.
The click of a lock. A glance up. A shiny handle. An unassuming door. It beckoned, though he knew not why, and he pushed himself off his feet and slipped inside.
It smelled of smoke and the walls had shadows of a fire almost up to the ceiling, but George didn't care. He was focused on what was before him, the impossible standing before his eyes.
It was himself, or almost. There was the stocky limbs, the lopsided grin, the twinkling eyes.
"Fred…" George murmured, reaching a hand up to touch him. What a cruel stop of his heart it was when his fingers met not flesh, but cool glass instead. The hand that lifted was mirrored, and George's ghost heart broke anew. He leaned his head against the glass, against his brother's reflection and sank to the floor again.
"Fred." He repeated raggedly, not caring that his face was overflowing with tears. "You shouldn't have left. You were too good, too whole to leave. What am I to do, Fred, now that you've left me?"
A moment's pause. Anger rising. A quiet question.
"Why? Why did you leave me? Fred, why didn't you take me with you?" Each word grew louder until George was roaring, up on his feet and screaming at the boy. "You've left me here, alone. Don't you know how that feels? Fred! Come back or take me with you? Why did you leave me?"
His fist flew and the mirror shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. He stared at the wreckage for a minute, barely registering the flow of blood dripping off his knuckles.
"Oh, Freddie." And he turned on his heel and left the mirror room, closed that door forever. Closed his mind off forever.
But fate is a wicked mistress and more images of Fred assaulted him wherever he looked. In his brothers' face, in his father's humor, in his sister's laugh. Mental pictures lay heavy on the conversation when his mother scolded; the imprint of Fred strong with every punishment. Photographs were turned down in whatever room George was in. One morning found Fred's bed out in the garden, a large hole in the twin's bedroom and a red-eyed George on the couch.
The worst was the mirrors. Years and years passed before George's heart stopped fluttering whenever he caught a reflection of himself. Hating it as he did, there was always the smallest hope that this time, it would really be him.
Hope was dangerous, George learned. Hope caused you pain and so he avoided mirrors as best he could, not caring how he looked. It was the price of his sanity.
It was only in the darkest nights, when the nightmares rolled over him like waves and the memories bombarded him, that he gave in. He would creep out of bed, find a looking-glass and fall asleep with his face pressed to it, fancying that he could hear the echo of his twin breathing as he did.