George Weasley woke up with a number on his mind. Five-hundred and two to be exact. Today was the 19th of September and it had been five hundred and two days since his twin had died. Today, like the previous five hundred and one days, George refused to look in the mirror. Instead, he walked past the spots where they used to hang and ignored the aching feeling in his chest. He went into the bathroom and turned on the tap; he needed a hot shower to wash away the night sweats and the lingering fear from his nightmares. Both clung to him and weighed him down, just as they did every other morning for the past year and a half.
George tossed his pants in the direction of his other dirty clothes, adding to the pile he'd forgotten to wash for the third time this month. He'd have to wash them soon or else he'd run out of clean anything. He stepped in the shower as steam began to slink about his tiny loo, wincing only slightly as the heated water scalded his skin.
He didn't linger under the fiery water too long, rather he made quick work of shampooing his short, ginger hair (shorter than he'd ever worn it), and scrubbed his normally pale skin clean all within six minutes. He cleaned his teeth, his movements mechanical. It was only fifteen minutes since he had awoken, but he had already completed all of his morning routines, donned his field robes, and collected his wand from his bedside table. All he had to do now was leave his flat. Today was the day and if he lingered at home any longer he'd chicken out and never leave. George knew he couldn't do that. Knew he wouldn't want him to. He'd call him a girl, George thought, then laugh at him for being such a pansy.
No, George thought with a jerky shake of his head. He would have understood.
Steeling himself with a deep breath, George turned on his heel and apparated to the iron gates that would lead him to Hogwarts, or at least the grounds. The twisting and pulling sensation he felt, which bothered most, was nothing compared to what George felt on a daily basis. The feeling didn't even register in his mind anymore. When he arrived at his destination, he walked the five feet to the gates, tapped one of the metal bars with his wand and murmured the incantation he'd been told to cast. McGonagall had suggested he just floo to the Castle, but George had vehemently declined. If he had it his way, he'd enter The Forbidden Forest before the Castle even came into his line of sight.
No, George much preferred arriving in this manner.
It didn't take long for the iron gates to creak open, and George silently thanked McGonagall for understanding his need to be alone. For his need to do this as quickly as possible and with minimal distractions. George took a shaky breath, swallowed heavily, and stepped between the columns with the Winged Boars and through the open gates. His hands tightened into fists and his heart rate increased dramatically. This was the first time since it had happened that George had stepped foot on the grounds of Hogwarts.
He considered turning back, taking those four steps back and then disapparating away to his flat. He could change his field robes and simply go into work. As hard as it was to be at the shop, this was harder. Being here, even on the outskirts, was like having it happen all over again. George bit into his cheek and forced himself to get a grip. The metallic taste of blood hit his taste buds, causing him to feel even sicker. Ten minutes -twenty at the most- and he'd be done. He could leave. He wouldn't have to come back. If he could just find the spot he and his brother had discovered all those years ago then he could send someone else to collect the plants when he needed a new supply.
The ingredients had been written on a scrap of parchment that looked like it had been crumpled up more than just a few times. It was a mere accident that he had even found it. Three days ago he'd been forced to clear out parts of the storage room, an oddly shaped room at the back of the shop that was used more as a junk room than proper storage. He'd of been happy to leave the room as it were had he not of been in desperate need of more square footage for storing the shop's inventory. Two days ago he opened the trunk that had -what George initially thought was rubbish- contained scraps of notes and half finished products. It was inside this trunk that George found that specific piece of parchment. When he'd realised what he'd come across, near elation overtook him, but it was quickly extinguished when he remembered that his partner in crime was no longer there to share his joy. To get excited about finding that particular idea after misplacing it ages ago was nothing to be excited for, not when Fred wasn't there to share it with him.
George shook his head and banished the thought. He needed to stop thinking about the past. He needed to focus on the task at hand; that was to find the damned elusive plant, dig up its roots, pluck its leaves, and then leave. He had to stop thinking about what might've been and focus on the future. Focus on getting by.
Truth be told, the only reason he was doing this was because he dreamed of Fred the night he had found the paper. His brother told him to do it, nothing more or less than "Get on with it, you wanker," and infectious laughter that seemed to haunt him even as he left sleep, and his brother, behind. George knew his brother couldn't come back and that it wasn't really him who he saw in his dream, but he still felt obligated to do as Fred bade him. That morning he'd stared at that wrinkly bit of torn parchment, stared until his vision went blurry and all he could think about was not wanting to let his brother down.
Forcing his mind back to the present, George continued to make his way through the forest. It was early in the day so the sun had yet to penetrate the trees' leaves. It wasn't bright by any means, but George didn't have too hard of a time navigating the landscape. Sneaking about after hours for nearly his entire life had paid off in the respect that he needed only a little light to make his way around. It was a talent one had to acquire if any real mischief was to take flight, especially in the wee hours of the morning when shadows clung to every surface, nook, and cranny.
After walking briskly for nearly five minutes, he stopped and cast a navigation spell to make certain he was headed in the proper direction. He wasn't. George muttered under his breath and turned right, hoping he hadn't gotten too off track. Two minutes later he started seeing pops of color near the larger trees, white and red and orange blossoms. A few feet farther and he knew he reached the right place. There was a clearing up ahead and the forest floor nearest the trees were littered with the plants he was after.
He had come prepared: inside his robe he had a shrunken trowel and two charmed plastic bags that would keep the plants fresh until he needed to use them. Removing all three items and charming the trowel back to normal, George went to work. He had collected nearly half a bag of the plant's small, iridescent green leaves when he decided to go ahead and dig the roots up. He stood up and walked over to a particularly abundant patch and began nudging the collection of dead leaves, pine cones, and sticks away so he could get to the base of the plant. He knelt, not caring that he was dirtying up his trousers. Magic could get nearly anything out of clothing, and a bit of dirt wasn't going to hurt a thing. Deciding to forgo the use of the garden tool, George began digging with his hands. The soil was moist, and it was easy to reach the roots. He was mentally going over the required way to pull the roots up (if he just ripped them out of the ground, the damned things would be useless) when something snapped a branch behind him.
His head whipped around and he grabbed his wand from the ground beside him. Ready to fire, George slowly stood up and took a step in the direction he had heard the noise. His muscles were tightened and his jaw was locked. The Forbidden Forest was protected by Hogwarts' magically boundaries, but there was always a chance a rogue Death Eater could slip through. It had happened before, after all.
His eyes scanned the woods before him and he nearly cast a stunning curse when a doe walked out of the trees and into the clearing. Their eyes met and both he and the doe stayed perfectly still. A moment later, the animal deemed him trouble and took off, her hooves digging deeply into the soft earth beneath her. Before he would have laughed at himself and at the startled deer. Now, however, was different. His laugh was rare, and it barely ever lasted longer than a few fleeting moments; when he laughed all he could hear was the absence of his brother, and he already had quite enough to remind him. Chiding himself, George walked back to his things and lowered his body back to the ground. This time, however, when he knelt something hard dug into his right knee. He scrunched his face up in irritation and lifted his knee. His hand searched for the offending object and soon he found a small stone. He nearly tossed it aside, but something in his gut made him stop. This stone looked hand carved and after he rubbed the dirt away from it, he saw that the surface was impossibly smooth. He turned it in his hands, three times to be exact, and looked at it with a confused expression on his face. Odd place to lose something that could very well be valuable. Shrugging, he figured he'd owl it Minerva once he was back at his flat.
He leaned back so he could place the stone in his pocket, his backside digging into his boots. That's when he saw it. Him. George froze, his hand still clasped around the small, black stone. He blinked furiously and then pinched his arm. It couldn't be. George had to be dreaming, or hallucinating; that was the only explanation for what he was seeing, who he was seeing. Despite his hard pinches and his mental commands to wake up and snap out of it, the person in front of him did not go away and George did not wake up.
It had been sixteen months, two weeks, and three days since Fred stood in front of George. It had been more than twelve thousand and fifty hours since he had seen his brother, his other half, and George couldn't quite believe his eyes. He must be going mad. Or dying himself, which seemed very likely seeing as he felt like he was having a heart attack at the mere age of twenty-one. Pain was radiating through his body, the raw emotion of seeing whom he was seeing, beat down upon him. He was almost certain he was dying and this was all a hallucination of a dying man, a vision to bring him peace in his last moments.
But no, it was him. It was Fred, and he was smiling at him.
"Hullo, Forge. Long time no see."
For the first time in over a year, George threw his head back and laughed.