George Weasley flailed his arms over the ebony stairwell at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, blankly staring into the closed eyes of countless house-elf heads. The ebony stairwell where he stood was dingy, silent, and covered in dust. He did not feel warm, despite the warm fires in the kitchen. He did not feel relieved, even though it had been days since he had seen the battlefield that was Hogwarts. He did not feel whole, after seeing his home, school, and family destroyed.

George's brown eyes lazily glanced down to the rooms below, then to his left, hopeful that another identical figure would be there to comfort him or crack a joke. Nobody was there. He sighed softly before looking down again.

Now, where was his reassurance? Where was his relief? The last George had seen his parents, they were crying over Fred's silent body. George hoped that they had been able to flee the battlefield safely, finding refuge elsewhere far from the school.

The last he had seen Bill and Charlie, they were tending to the wounded in the Great Hall while flinging jinxes across the room. George wished that he could have shared their valor on the battlefield, but he had done all he could.

The last he had seen Ron, he was standing with Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived. But that did not matter. Now, Harry was dead, and Ron was missing with him. George seemed to know every detail of Harry's death, for he had constantly heard Ginny mumbling them between choked sobs. If he pressed his ear closely enough to the wall, he could hear his sister's cries in the other room, drowning out even Mrs. Black's screaming portrait.

I have of late,—but wherefore I know not,—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises, George thought to himself, brooding. Indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,—why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours-

George groaned loudly, hoping there would be a response, a reply, even a punishment. But he was met with his own echo, and nothing more. It was infuriating, nothing like the constant energy of the Burrow, with his family constantly dashing up and down its creaky stairs, sending shining brass kettles flying across the room while Errol flopped around the rafters. George knew his family would never be the same again, and neither would his home, now a smoldering ruin in the middle of the countryside.

George sighed, exasperated. "What a plague means my sister," he mumbled, "to take the death of her...hero thus?"

At last there was a response to George's bemoaning, as Professor McGonagall stepped from the other hall, angry and in a rage. "Mr. Weasley?" she cried incredulously.

He shrugged. "I am sure care's an enemy's life."

McGonagall's face grew more twisted with rage and fatigue. "By my troth, Mr. Weasley, you must come in earlier o' nights," she dictated. George could see her twitchy eyes fixed on the dark bags under his own, his face distorted by battle and many sleepless nights. "Your sister takes great exception to your ill hours."

George flopped back onto the banister, rolling his eyes. "Well, let her except, before being excepted."

McGonagall sighed, letting her fatigue and exasperation finally show itself. "Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order," she suggested.

George knew that she would try to continue and mentor him, as she had done within the corridors of Hogwarts. But George had already seen had already seen the brutality of the world, even if he had spent years hiding away from it. His own store with Fred had been a joyous hiding place within Diagon Alley, but now even that had been destroyed, and his entire world had been blanketed in darkness, with no happiness, no life, no-

"Why?" George shouted, at last, addressing neither McGonagall nor himself, but the new world order within which he lived. "I know Ginny will alway stay like this, weeping and-" he began proudly, "-but let me go after them, the Death Eaters!" he finally concluded in a confused, maddening bravery.

"Mr. Weasley!" McGonagall tried to extend a calmly shaking hand to his broad shoulder.

"-And let them try to kill me too!" George cried, before stopping, slowly, understanding the power of his words. He shrugged. "He that is well hanged in this world needs to fear no colors."

McGonagall finally grabbed ahold of George's shoulder before she looked him sternly in the face. "Do you know how many people died at Hogwarts?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly with every word. "How many Gryffindors?"

George did not respond. He could not respond.

"It is so important that you have lived, George," McGonagall said, stammering. "Had you not plucked your sister from the castle as you fled-"

George nodded. He knew McGonagall was proud of his brave actions in the past days.

"-but this is certainly not becoming of you!" McGonagall exclaimed at last, before looking at him sternly. "I know your brother's...death has left you a state of insatiable mourning. But you need to show strength for your sister, for us-"

"-for anyone left?" George offered.

McGonagall nodded quickly before her ancient face cracked a subtle smile. "Think of the virtue that you might show. Tut, there's life in 't, man." As soon as George had looked away, she was gone, no doubt ascending to the higher floors of the near-silent House of Black.

Alone again in his thoughts, George began thinking to himself about McGonagall's many words. He wished he could constantly be as strong as she described, but his own confidence failed him. Who would have the strength to do so after such a battle?

Who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,— The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn No traveler returns,—puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of?

George knew that he would find the strength to defy the stars, the past, and his newfound enemies who crawled the corners of Voldemort's world. He had the strength to do so.

His bravery would let him endure it.

Author's Note

When I first read the Harry Potter books, I connected to the Weasley twins almost immediately because I, too, am one of a pair of redheaded twins. (I loved the Weasleys in general, but the twins were my favorite). I particularly enjoyed reading about their misadventures at Hogwarts, and I got so stupidly excited when they fled Hogwarts to open their joke shop.

Because of all this, Fred's death was the hardest for me to take.

I've always wondered how this might have affected George and the other characters, because we don't know a whole lot about what happens to everyone directly after the Battle of Hogwarts. Therefore, I got to take advantage of some creative license in the subplot of this fic.

George also waxes into Hamlet a LOT. In this instance, he has a lot in common with the Prince of Denmark (being extremely unable to cope with death and the future), so I temporarily abandoned Twelfth Night so that I might crack into everyone's favorite soliloquies. However, George is still going to be mostly based on Sir Toby, with McGonagall being based on Maria.

More scenes coming soon. Get excited! Don't forget to leave a review!