Disclaimer: World and characters are JK Rowling's. I am not JK Rowling.

This is shorter than the previous chapters. Writing did not come easy today, but I pushed on as best I could. Keeping NaNoWriMo-ing on. Didn't hit my target for today, but as the last few chapters were longer I'm still on track. Hopefully tomorrow will go better!

Chapter Four – George

Another morning, another knock at the door. George had been awake for hours anyway. He only slept in short bursts now, jerking awake from bad dreams, soaked in sweat. He spent hours were spent tossing and turning, no matter how tired he was. His mind just wouldn't stop. He hadn't slept through the night since he'd been taken off the sleeping draughts. He feared sleep. It wasn't the safe dark cocoon it had once been, closing his eyes meant being assaulted by memories of the bloody battle at Hogwarts. He relived Fred's last moments nearly every night and every day, he just felt more tired.

He showered and dressed, taking his time, putting off facing his family. He knew he should make an effort to be brighter, to ease their worries, but he just couldn't shift the heavy gloom that pressed down on his chest. It never lifted, it just kept pushing him down and down, deeper and deeper. Even breathing felt like such an effort, like such a waste. This wasn't living.

The tension was palpable as he entered the kitchen. It still smelled like home – like food and happiness – but the ease of it was gone. They didn't sit and laugh here like they once had. It was much stiller in The Burrow now, sorrow had hushed them all. They were all quieter, all paler, all lower-key versions of their former selves, like the volume of their lives had been turned down. Molly was at the stove. Arthur was at work already, Percy was sitting at the table drinking coffee. He had never looked comfortable here, but now he was back and trying to make amends, he was more awkward than ever. He seemed to be constantly apologetic, and he radiated guilt and remorse. George knew Percy was trying. The betrayal had been forgiven, after all family was family, and that meant even more to them now. Still…he couldn't connect with him. He found Percy's need for reassurance draining. He was being kind though, not teasing him as he once had…but that could just be because he didn't have Fred by his side, egging him on.

Molly's nervousness practically fizzed about her as George came into the room. She examined his face closely, as though trying to read his mood. She had been extra vigilant since his trip to Hogsmeade. He had told her it had been fine, that he'd met the girls and had coffee with them. He knew Ginny would have been told to send a detailed written report too. He wasn't sure if his mother was hoping the outing would have some miraculous cheering effect on him, or whether she was worried his outburst about needing to leave the house meant things were getting worse. He wordlessly endured her scrutiny, biting back harsh words. She wanted the best for him, he knew that. He walked over and kissed her cheek. She was startled. He hadn't initiated physical contact in a long time. He endured it, but avoided it if he could. He had been hugged and cried upon too much in the last few months.

'Morning mum.'

'Morning George.' She smiled at him, but her eyebrows were still pulled together with worry. 'Tea?'

He sat down to have his breakfast, nodding hello to Percy. As he buttered toast he had no appetite for, Molly placed a letter down beside his plate. 'Post for you, dear. It arrived early this morning.'

She hovered, watching him. At least the letter wasn't addressed to Fred & George Weasley, those were the worst. This was just probably something to do with business. He hadn't done anything to get Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes going again. Without Fred, what was the point? He didn't have the energy or enthusiasm for it. He just didn't care anymore.

The letter was addressed in a neat hand that seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it. It wasn't Ginny's writing, hers was bigger and spikier. It wasn't Angelina's either, hers was slanting and loopy. His mum was still waiting, still watching. He resisted the urge to ask smartly if she'd like him to read it aloud, instead pocketing it to read upstairs later. He ate his breakfast, and she drifted back to her cleaning. Percy tried to break the silence by telling them about his research job, but both Molly and George were too distracted.

Back up in their room, George sat on his bed, and turned the letter over in his hands. Who would be writing to him? They were thankfully past the awful stage of sympathy cards and letters. The messages had poured in – trite cards full of clichés, awful tearful letters about Fred – and they all had to be read and replied to. It had seemed never-ending, damn Fred for being so popular and beloved. Responding to them all had been draining, George just felt utterly emptied out, with nothing to give. He had stopped responding to letters from friends who wanted to see him. He spent as much time as possible hiding away up here, it was just easier. Even being with his family was so difficult.

He opened the seal on the letter, unfolding it to see a short letter in the same small, neat hand. He saw the name at the end first, Hermione. She had never written to him before, he had no idea why she would now. His brow furrowed as he read.

I'm here if you need anything…

you could write to me…

He crumpled up the letter in frustration, tossing it across the room. She was just like the rest of them, thinking she knew how to make things better when she didn't have a fucking clue. She thought it was sad? Well, try living like this. Try feeling this having half of your life torn away from you. She didn't know what pain really was, how could she possibly understand? Did she think she could send him some peppy little response, and then suddenly he'd be back to his old self? He could never be that self again. Fred was gone, and that made all the difference.

Try not to think about it, people would say. How could he not, when his very face was a reminder of what he was missing? His reflection mocked him, like a ghostly Fred looking back at him. Bar the ear (or lack thereof), they were identical. His missing ear seemed prophetic or symbolic now –a piece of him missing, his loss made visible.

Live your life.

Get a hobby.

Write a letter.

Piss off, as if any of that would actually help. Every part of his life had been lived with Fred by his side, there was no escaping his memory, no escaping his absence. He didn't want to forget, it would be a betrayal. Why couldn't anyone understand that?