A/N: Hello, all! I'm alive, yes. Updates on Andi are going to be slow, cause a) school and b) writer's block. I still don't have the next chapter to be posted written. Oops. This may be helped by reviews ;-)

Updates on this one are going to be slow and sporadic because I'm not really far along (about 10k words so far…) and this, too, is helped by reviews!

Anyways. Post-DH and Pre-DH and Marauders and Hogwarts Eras all at once! *GASP!*

Aaaand this story will not completely be George's POV. It was originally intended to be, but…well…I never actually *thought* about it, so POV's will switch around occasionally. Probably. Later. :-) That's all. Over with this overlong A/N, out of dreary boringness-land, and into the story!

George opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

He hadn't been asleep. Not in the best sense of the word, which meant restful and not dreaming. He had been resting physically.

Maybe not even that. His body seemed as tired and worn as the night before.

His mind was even worse. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, he just wanted to close his eyes and never open them again. Shut out the world.

He glanced across the room to the other bed. The one with the mussed-up covers and the dragon-skin suit dangling over the footboard.

Fred's suit and his bed.

He hadn't touched it since the second of May. It had been nearly two weeks since the Battle of Hogwarts.

Two weeks since Fred had…left him.

He was such a wimp. He couldn't even think of what had happened to Fred. But George could think easily of what Fred would have said if he'd have known.

"Awww, George, you're such a wimp! But don't worry, 'cause I'm a wimp too. This isn't helping, is it. Have a cream puff?"

Of course, if Fred had been there to say that and force-feed him a Canary Cream and laugh as he grew feathers and happily wrestle about it afterwards, there wouldn't have been a problem in the first place.

Fred's gone. George sighed. He hadn't been out much. Mainly stayed in their room, in denial, as he was sure the others were saying. Charlie and Bill had taken it upon themselves to stock his fridge with groceries every few days, and check that he was eating. He had tried to tell them no, but they had insisted.

Fred's funeral is tomorrow, George remembered dimly. He wondered if he would go. Hopefully not, if he got the choice. Bill or Charlie would probably drag him along, though.

As it turned out, he was right.

The next morning, at promptly nine o'clock, Charlie appeared in his fireplace, suit immaculate. George mentally snorted over his cereal. Charlie almost never wore formal clothes. Almost as infrequently as Bill. Almost. Nothing could compete with Bill's earring, muggle rock concert clothes, and long hair.

"I'm not going, Charlie," George said, catching the pleading look on Charlie's face.

"George-"

"No. End of story."

"Too bad, Mum wants you there and I am not facing her wrath because you're being a git and sitting in your flat." Charlie's tone of voice said that he was adamant.

George winced. He disliked the serious and bossy side of his usually adventure-loving older brother. He was almost like Percy at the moment. He could have at least made the old joke about rather facing down a Hungarian Horntail unarmed than their Mum when she was mad.

"George. C'mon."

"Fine," George muttered, feeling that he didn't have the energy to argue.

"Where's your dragon-skin suit?" Charlie asked, looking around. "Get it, will you?" He didn't say what he was clearly thinking: Mum wants everyone to look nice for today.

George found his suit, which was hanging in the wardrobe. He slipped it on as well as dress pants - He hated dress pants. Horrible things. - and glanced at himself in the tall mirror.

He flinched at his reflection. An undernourished frame, bags under his eyes, matted barely-orange-anymore hair. Most of all, he flinched at his similarity to the face that everyone missed but saw so frequently.

Fred.

No one was used to George.

Well, they all were used to him, just not him being alone.

Fred and George.

Gred and Forge.

Never George.

Never Fred.

Always Fred and George.

George didn't mind being second, in roll call or birth order. For the former, he could always switch places with Fred anyways, so it didn't matter. For the latter…well…aside from the occasional friendly argument about who was older, et cetera, it had never come up.

Besides, someone had to be second, and it just so happened it was him in that lifetime.

Fred was the first.

The first to be born, the first in alphabetical order, the first to die.

Dammit. He was crying now.

George hastily wiped the tears from his cheeks, stuck his wand in his pocket, and hurried out to Floo to the Burrow with Charlie.

The sky was overcast and cloudy, with the impression that it probably wasn't going to really rain, but might drizzle later. Gloomy weather for a gloomy day.

At the Burrow, the mood was sober. No squabbles between siblings. No jokes. No loud noises, even.

Even from Great-Aunt bloody Muriel, at the moment.

George couldn't believe the old hag had had the guts to show up, and decided the second she made one rude comment, he would hex her with every curse he knew and not feel a hint of regret afterwards. If he was motivated enough to even move, rather than sit or stand still and wallow in misery.

"You there! Let me sit down, I'm one hundred and eight!" she squawked at Andromeda Tonks, who, to her credit, gave Muriel a very dirty look and did not move an inch from where she sat with little Teddy, who at the moment had bright purple hair that Andromeda was attempting to coax back to brown or black. "Oh!" Muriel exclaimed haughtily, tottering off to badger someone else despite the fact that hardly any seats were filled. Andromeda glared after her (George was struck by her momentary resemblance to her sister Bellatrix), then looked around and saw George.

"Hello, George," she said softly. "I'm sorry about his hair; he doesn't seem to want it to go normal."

"Don't worry about it," George said quietly. "If that's how he wants it, it's fine with me, and it should be with everyone else."

Andromeda smiled, albeit in a sad way. George remembered that she had lost her daughter and stepson, Tonks and Remus, as well as her husband, leaving her virtually alone with Teddy. "Thank you."

That was the first conversation he had had in the past fortnight that didn't include someone saying my condolences or I'm sorry for your loss. It was the closest thing to normal that he could remember. It was better.

"George! Oh, what have you done to your hair?" Molly came bustling over, wand in hand. George tried to back… away… slowly. It didn't work. "Tergeo!" George felt the spell brush through his hair, clean it of all debris, and comb it neatly, parting it down the middle.

"Mum," he protested, but his voice had no energy in it.

"Fine, mess it up again, see if I fix it," she said, running off to manage seating issues. George half-heartedly ran his hand back and forth through his hair and shook his head, effectively mussing it up. Neat hair. He could not stand super-neat hair. Clean was fine. Combed, sure. But neat and parted and shiny?

Absolutely not.

Even Sirius, who had loved his hair, hadn't had it neat and parted and shiny, he remembered with a pang of loss.

George caught a glimpse of Bill, who was standing with Fleur (who was wearing a simple black dress) and talking with Charlie. He was wearing an untidy, dusty-looking suit and had taken his dragon-fang earring out for the occasion. He had not, however, cut his hair, instead leaving it back in his typical ponytail. George thought that Fred would have preferred casual wear. After all, he had planned his wedding as follows: body-bind Mum, no nonsense, wear whatever you like. George wondered if his funeral shouldn't follow the same wishes. But funerals were different. If Fred had willed it like he would have wanted, well, things might have been different. But neither Fred nor George had wills, and if they had, it would be simple: It all goes to Fred/George or next of kin.

Several minutes later, George found his seat in the front row and sat in it, mindlessly staring at the large hole in the ground that would soon be his brother's grave.

Finally, the funeral music started, and Fred's coffin floated up to the front of the service and rested on a marble podium.

Fred would have hated this music, George thought. The Weird Sisters would be more appropriate.

After several very long, very depressing minutes of funeral march music-which only had one real use, and that was using it as a tune for the Hogwarts school song-the coffin top floated off and Fred's body was revealed.

As George looked at his twin's face, it hit him. Fred's gone forever. He was unable to stop the sudden tears that poured down his cheeks, splashing onto his dragon-skin suit, nor the spasm of his shoulders that shook his entire being in a silent sob.

Then, his mind went really blank.

Robot-blank.

I-can't-think-or-feel-anything-but-pain-because-my -systems-are-shutting-down-because-of-extreme-emot ional-pain blank.

Not numb. Numb meant no pain. Blank meant no thought and just sitting, staring at his brother and into space at the same time, mind overwhelmed with pain and empty of feeling simultaneously.

My-twin-brother-is-dead blank.

George felt himself move with the crowd. File through the line. Whisper a choked goodbye to Fred, kiss his forehead, and move on.

As all the people filed out of the marquee to the Burrow's yard, which had a very long table set perfectly, George heard a very loud, squawking voice.

"Well, it'll be quieter, now there's only one, after all, they were so ill-mannered…badly raised, I think…"

Muriel.

George started digging around in his pockets. He always had one on him-oh, where was the dang thing-it's got to be in that pocket-no, that one-There!

He pulled a small, roughly spherical object out of his pocket, weighed it in his hand, and chucked it at Muriel's head, putting a large amount of fury into the throw.

The object exploded on contact, causing a wave of green-tinted gas and putrid smell to overcome Muriel. Her eyes widened with horror and fury. George turned away, having gained no satisfaction from blowing up a dungbomb on Great Aunt Muriel, and walked into the Burrow.

When he entered the door, he saw something rather surprising: Harry was leaning in the doorway, watching him calmly. "Nice aim, George. She deserved it," he said.

"Yes, she did," George growled, making to shove past him.

"Nope, not going there," Harry said, standing his ground. ...Merlin's pants, when did he get so strong? I swear, it seemed like it was only yesterday that we were dragging him through the snow. "I'm under orders from your Mum, by the way, so I really don't have much of a choice."

George had to admit it; that was true. "Fair enough. What'm I supposed to do?"

"I think she wants you to talk to someone, me in particular," Harry said.

"I'm not talking about that." George turned away.

"Yeah, I know. But we're supposed to talk anyways, so we should sit down."

George sat on the couch. Harry also sat. He pulled out a small, home-bound book.

"I thought you should have this. Ron, Hermione, and I made it with help from your brothers and Ginny."

George opened it to the first page. It was a snapshot of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes in all its glory, complete with flashing You-no-poo sign and jumping Pygmy Puffs in the windows. He felt tears well in his eyes and fought them back, though one slipped down his cheek, wet and hot against his skin.

"Thank you, Harry. It means a lot to me," he said quietly, closing the book to examine the cover. It was a simple picture of them laughing at a long-forgotten joke.

But it wasn't long-forgotten. George remembered every minute detail of it.

They had set off fireworks in the hallways, and it was clearly taken right as they were set off, as afterwards they had hidden in a secret passageway. A rocket was zooming past the camera.

In that moment, George wanted nothing more than to have Fred back, and would have done anything to achieve that.

Then, he felt and saw the Burrow twisting and bending around him, creating a blur of motion. He looked up in alarm, but it was too fast to stop. He held tight to the book and closed his eyes until the world came to a stop.

When he blinked open his eyes, his surroundings were familiar.

He was at Hogwarts, in an empty classroom. He was back in his school robes, but his wand was still in his pocket.

George glanced at the clock. 11:36 AM. That was about right, he supposed. There was a calendar on the desk, still wrapped in plastic. The year was….

No. That was impossible. He must be seeing things.

But he wasn't. The year on the calendar was 1976.

A/N: So how was that? Not to angst-y, I hope? Do you want to kill me? Hug me? Hold my poor innocent four-ish-year-old puppy hostage until I update again?

Talk to me, people. Don't be afraid to sound crazy. Or sane. Either's fine by me ;-)