Chapter Two: Through the Looking Glass

Almost three weeks had passed since the battle at Hogwarts. Fred's funeral had been four days after and it had been the worst day of George's life. He'd missed almost everything the pastor had said because he couldn't stop thinking about poor Fred lying in that wooden box, wearing such an awful suit. It was a dull blue colour that his mother had picked out and it was possibly the most revolting thing George had ever clapped eyes on. Certainly not something Fred would have chosen for himself. He'd watched as the coffin was lowered magically into the earth and as it was covered with damp soil until it was no longer visible. George's stomach had churned violently when his father told him it was time to leave but he hadn't protested. He'd simply walked, robot-like, with the rest of his family.

Now, three weeks after the day that changed everything, George, Harry, Ginny, Hermione and Ron sat around the kitchen table in the Burrow eating what remained of a chicken broth. George poked at it feebly with his spoon and watched as a few carrots bobbed to the top of the murky liquid like tiny goldfish. He hated carrots, always had, and he collected them in his spoon to hand to Fred who loved them. He lifted the spoon out of the bowl and looked to his left. Of course, Fred wasn't there. It was just an empty seat with a few scuff marks on it where many happy people had sat and enjoyed meals. The spoon dropped from George's hand and banged loudly on the wooden table, carrots tumbling off it. Ron looked up from his conversation with Hermione, as did Ginny and Harry. George stared at the fallen carrots with eyes like large orbs, he looked around the table,

"I- I thought…" he trailed off, utterly defeated, "I'll clean it up." He stood, took a towel from the draining board and mopped up the spilt broth. He poured the rest of the contents of his bowl down the sink and padded out of the room silently. Hermione looked back at Ron and took his hand,

"Go and talk to him." Ron blanched and swallowed hard,

"I can't… I dunno what to say!"

Hermione smiled kindly, "Ron, he's your brother. It doesn't matter what you say." She kissed his cheek and Ron made his way to what once was Fred and George's room but was now only George's.

George was sitting on his bed, his head in his hands, when Ron knocked quietly on the door. He pushed it open after hearing no response and George looked up, tears staining his face.

"Alright?" Ron said, a lump forming in his throat. George stared at the floor as Ron stood awkwardly in the centre of the room. He cleared his throat, "Do you want to talk about it?" George shook his head and another tear fell from his blank eyes. Silently Ron walked towards what had once been Fred's bed and bent to sit down. George jumped to his feet and held out his hands, as though Ron was some sort of dragon about to consume him,

"No!" George shouted, "Don't sit there!"

Ron froze and stood back up, shock on his face, "What? Why?"

"Its- Just leave it as it is!" George's shoulders sagged and he flopped back down on his bed. Ron walked over to his brother and sat beside him. It felt strange with no one on his other side; usually he was sandwiched between the twins with one of them prodding him whilst the other one giggled mischievously. But now it was just George. And it would always be just George from now on. Ron looked at him and said,

"We're all in this together you know. We're all gonna miss… him. You're not alone."

George's pleading face turned to his youngest brother. Alone. That's all he'd ever be now. No more Gred and Forge, no more 'which one's which?' from strangers, no more synchronised thoughts. He tried to smile at his little brother but it felt wrong on his face, like he was forcing something out of himself that no longer felt natural. Ron seemed to think he'd helped though, and squeezed George's hand before leaving him alone in the all-too-empty room with only his thoughts for company. He lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering if Fred was looking down on him from wherever it was people went when they died.

~ o o O o o ~

BOOM!

It was like a firework had been lit right in his face. One minute he was shooting anyone and everyone with blasts from his wand and the next he was laying on his back looking up at blurry faces through a thick cloud of white mist. He squinted through the cloud and saw his mother leaning over him, crying. Then his father was doing the same and then George, ever-happy George, was staring down at him with heavy tears falling from his eyes. The tears fell on his face but he didn't feel them, they seemed to evaporate before they touched his skin. He tried to sit up and comfort his twin, to tell him everything would be okay, but he couldn't move. It was like something huge and heavy was sitting on his chest preventing him from moving even his fingers. He saw George lean down and whisper something to him but he couldn't hear him through the thickening mist. Suddenly the mist was all he could see; he felt himself being wrenched backwards, like he was tumbling down for miles, and then he suddenly landed, feet first, onto something very solid.

Fred looked around the vast empty space. Everything seemed to be covered in snow. No, not snow, it was too clean to be snow, it was more like the colour had been drained from everything, leaving only the white shells of whatever they had once been. He looked down at himself; he was still dressed like he had been when he was fighting, colour and all, and the only thing different that he could see was that he didn't have his wand anymore. He walked a few steps forward, towards what looked like a window, and pressed his head against the cool glass. Outside he could see Diagon Alley; people were milling around as usual, looking in shop windows and talking to one another as they passed. There was only one thing wrong with the scene: everything was white. Fred couldn't see any colour anywhere other than himself.

"Weird," he mumbled as he turned back to look at his surroundings. He finally realised where he was, "Our shop!" he exclaimed. He was standing on the balcony of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes looking over the rest of the joke shop. Everything was as it had been when he and George had locked up thinking it could be the last time either of them ever saw it. He touched the white balcony and it felt cold under his skin, like marble. Quickly he rushed down the stairs into the main part of the shop where the various sweets and joke items were kept; it all seemed too clean and clinical to be the same shop, like someone had come in and taken the soul right out of it. He picked up a small love potion which should have been pink but was the same blank white as everything else. He stared at it for a moment, hoping it would somehow tell him what was going on. It didn't. He threw it down angrily and watched as it stopped itself before hitting the floor and then disappeared in a puff of mist. "What the hell is going on?" he whispered to himself.

He made his way out of the shop and into Diagon Alley. Careful not to walk into any of the all-white people he rushed through the alley towards the shop where he would find the chimney to take him home. Before he had time to even find the shop he was standing in his and George's room.

"How-" he started to speak but stopped when something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. Someone was lying on his bed, fast asleep by the looks of it. Everything in the room was still the weird white colour but it seemed clearer here, like the mist was thinner somehow. He stepped towards the bed and gasped sharply. It was him. Or rather his body. "Bloody hell," he croaked. He held out his hand to touch his oddly still body but stopped when his father entered the room followed by a thin man with a pointed face. Fred smiled and dashed to his father, ready to hug him warmly but his hands passed straight through him. He tried again but to no avail. Arthur Weasley didn't even know Fred was there.

"Ah yes," the thin man said as Fred watched silently, helpless, "You're very lucky."

Arthur's mouth fell open and he spat, "What?"

"His body doesn't seem to be too damaged," the thin man continued, obviously unaware of Arthur's shocked expression at his callous choice of words, "I'll take him to the funeral home now if that is what you wish?" Fred watched as his father nodded and a tear fell down his cheek. The thin man took Fred's dead hand and then vanished in a wisp of smoke. At that exact moment George barged into the room.

Fred watched as his twin shouted at his father and then lay on the floor crying into his hands. He was unable to let him know he was there or even move from the spot he was standing in but he stayed with him for hours as George poured his very soul out. After almost three hours George sat up and Fred watched as he took one of his old shirts and held it to his chest. He then watched as George got up and walked across the room. He suddenly stopped and Fred was certain he could see him, he was staring straight at him.

"Georgie?" Fred said quietly.

"Why?" George shouted. Fred was so elated that his twin could see him that he almost couldn't respond. But he shook himself out of his reverie and grinned stupidly,

"Oh, I was so worried you couldn't see-"

"You stupid bloody idiot! You left me!" George shouted, tears streaming down his face. Fred frowned and tried to explain,

"I couldn't help it! I think I'm dead George. What are we going to-"

"Oh, you're upset? What about me? I'm the one who has to stay here, alone!" George stared at Fred for a moment as Fred tried to understand what the hell his brother was talking about and then, all of a sudden, George balled up his fist and brought it up to punch Fred it in the face. Fred flinched and waited for the inevitable blow but it never came. Instead he watched as George's fist connected with an invisible barrier between them which shattered and fell to the floor in pieces. Fred looked at the shards of reflective glass on the floor and his heart sank. He looked back at his brother who was now cradling his bloody hand,

"You were never talking to me were you? You could never see me. It was the mirror you were shouting at, your reflection," Fred feigned a smile, "How could you even imagine that ugly mug staring back at you was me?" He sighed and watched through his broken window as George was comforted by his mother and then as he slept alone in his room. Unable to communicate, unable to move Fred watched as his twin's life force slowly drained.

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