Staring at his own reflection in the mirror, George felt like he was suffocating. Or maybe even drowning, would be a better word for it. He could feel the water on his face, now that he thought about it, streaming down across his cheeks. But he could breathe, if only slightly, and when he did manage to get a few shaky gasps in, he could taste salt. But no water flooded his lungs, and he wasn't moving. It was like a mix of suffocating and drowning, but all he could do was stare into the mirror. His lower lip trembled, and if he cared enough to attempt to look closer, he'd see that it was tears, not water, that was pouring down his face. But he didn't care, and he didn't want to look closer. In fact, he didn't want to be looking at all, but he couldn't look away.

He gave a heavy blink, the split-second of darkness relieving, but when his eyes opened again he felt like he was going to just… break. Shatter. Fall apart right then and there. His tired gaze met the eyes, the same color his brother's had been. Flickered across the hair, the same color his brother's had been. Took in every feature, every expression. But it looked so wrong, too. Because he knew if his brother really were there, he wouldn't look so sad. He wouldn't be crying. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually seen his brother cry…

He sniffled slightly, trying to clear his nose so he could actually breathe through it normally, and finally brought a hand up to cover his eyes so he could turn his head away from the mirror. Unfortunately, this had him facing his brother's bed, still messy as ever and completely untouched, just the way that his brother had left it so long ago. For a moment, the sense of helplessness that engulfed him was enough to completely crush him. Shaking, he brought his hand back up, pressing it over his eyes and doubling over with a soft, shaky sigh. Not quite a sob, not loud enough or heavy enough to be considered one, but pretty damn close in George's opinion. That revelation was enough to force him back to reality, to at least try and ground himself, to compose himself.

Rubbing his thumb over both eyes in a desperate attempt to wipe away the tears, he straightened up and took in another deep, shaking breath, pushing himself back onto the bed. He wasn't okay. He knew that - hell, he told himself that daily, just to make sure that he, himself, didn't start believing that facade he put up for everyone else. He didn't want to believe he was okay. He didn't want to believe he was anything without… without him. More tears rushed to his eyes, turning his head, but keeping his hand over his eyes, not feeling able to look at anything in the room. Everything reminded George of him. And that wasn't okay.

His hand slid down to cover his mouth, though, when a soft sob broke through his lips. It was the first he had given since it had happened. As the sound left his lips, his heart gave another throb. He couldn't do this- he couldn't go on, he couldn't keep pretending, he couldn't… he couldn't live like this. He screwed his eyes shut and laid, shaking, in his bed, fighting back the rest of his sobs with whatever strength he had left. Sometimes, he didn't feel like he had any.

Pull yourself together… His thoughts trailed, having to choke back another sob as his brother's voice rang through his head. Well- it was George's voice, actually. But it was too similar… it might as well have been…

He couldn't even think to himself without his mind immediately turning in his brother's direction. He couldn't do anything without thinking of him. Because they did everything together. How were you supposed to move on from something like that? How were you supposed to be okay? How was he supposed to be okay, to move on, to just forget about his brother and act like everything was normal, and happy, and like he hadn't just had a part of him ripped away? Because that's what he was. His brother was his other half. Nothing would ever change that.

Never, in a million years, had George thought he and his brother would - could ever be separated. It was always just, them. Together. Making jokes, pulling pranks, having a laugh. Finishing each other's sentences, giggling and gossiping like schoolgirls, teasing their siblings mercilessly. It wasn't fair that that had ended. It wasn't fair that their bond had been severed. It wasn't fair that his brother had died.

It wasn't fair that it was him, and not George.

Daily, he wished, desperately, that it had been him, instead. Or both of them, at least. They should have gone together, just like they did everything else. But no, life was cruel, death was even worse. And it had been the one and only thing that could ever separate them. George hated that. Because he had never seen it coming, not in a thousand years. He always thought they'd go together… or not at all. Death wasn't even something George had considered.

He sighed and rubbed his face again, this time using his sleeve to rub across his entire face, honestly frustrated with himself now. Not for crying, but for not being able to stop once he started. He needed to learn how to compose himself at a split-second's notice. After all, you never knew when someone would just come barging into the room-

"George?"

- like that.

George kept his arm covering his face for a good few seconds, not wanting to remove it so quickly, and have Ron see his face, still mostly covered in tears. He didn't want to speak, not because his voice would be choked up, but because every time he spoke, all he heard was the voice of his brother. He kept sentences to a minimum even now, only speaking when absolutely necessary, only joking when he had to, when the negativity got to be too much. He couldn't stand to see his family be as… not-okay as he felt.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat and pulled his arm down, rubbing his sleeve roughly across his face in one last attempt to rub the tears away. He blinked his eyes open, thankful that the first thing he laid eyes on was the ceiling. He turned his head faintly toward Ron, but he couldn't bring himself to actually look over at him yet, uncertain whether or not he was ready to face him at the moment, whether he was composed enough to do so.

Ron didn't say another word. He just shuffled on his feet in the doorway, quieter than ever, never quite looking in George's direction. He wondered, numbly, if it was just as hard for them to look at him as it was for him to look at his own reflection, to hear his own voice. He wondered if it was as hard for them as it was for him, because he couldn't imagine that. He couldn't imagine them feeling the way he did. As broken, and as lost, as he did.

George sucked in a breath and sat up, finally bringing his brother's gaze back to his face, and he reluctantly turned to look at him. Their gazes met briefly, no more than a few seconds, and Ron was the first one to look away, down at his shoes. "Dinner's ready. Mom wanted me to tell you, if you're hungry."

George considered just leaving it at a nod, but the guilt that flooded through him as his brother turned to leave kept him from staying silent. He couldn't do that to Ron, not when he was probably suffering, just as much as George was. Because he was Ron's brother, too. He ran his tongue over his lips, still tasting salt, and after bracing himself, he finally opened his mouth to speak. "Don't tell me it's chicken again?"

Ron stopped in his tracks and turned back to him. George met his gaze, lips twitching upwards into a grin, but Ron only stared for a few moments in silence. Finally, when George thought he was going to pull a… well, George… he spoke. "Uh, no. Turkey, this time."

"What is with that woman and birds…" George sighed, hoping to bring a smile to his brother's face. He didn't quite manage it, though Ron's lips twitched just the slightest bit as he shook his head and shrugged, simultaneously agreeing and saying he didn't have the slightest clue at the same time. George cleared his throat, ignoring the hollow feeling aching at his chest, and reluctantly pushed himself out of his bed. "I'll be down in a moment, I just have to use the little boy's room."

Ron gave him a look that clearly said TMI before he nodded and headed downstairs, and George let the smile drop as soon as his brother's back was turned. Merlin's beard, this was hopeless… He swallowed and shook his head, following Ron out of the room, but heading for the bathroom instead of going downstairs. He shut the door behind him quietly, letting his weight sink back against it for a good few moments. Tears rushed back to his eyes instantly, but at that point he hardly fought it. He was used to it, when he was alone, it was as if it were just instinctive now. So he let them come for the time being, let them brew and push - but he kept them from spilling. When it got close, he finally rubbed them away with his sleeve again and let his head fall back against the door, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

It was just dinner. He just had to eat, and smile, and joke and laugh and- and finish his own sentences and not have anybody to steal food from when he- when he finished his own, and… George faltered, giving up on trying to even turn his thoughts in a remotely positive direction. It wasn't any use, and he wasn't any good at it.

But he did have to get this done. Then he could curl up in his bed and cry again. That sounded like a good plan, and even better motivation.

He took two minutes, two, was all he needed, to compose himself. Rubbing every trace of his own tears from his face. Part of him wanted to check his reflection in the mirror just to make sure he looked decent, but as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it. He had just finished wiping the tears away again, and he didn't think he had the strength to pull himself out of yet another emotional breakdown that night. He drew himself up and finally turned to leave the bathroom, faltering a bit at the top of the stairs but pushing himself forward anyway. Resigning himself to what he had to do, the smiles he had to force and the jokes he had to make, the laughter he had to fake.

The smile was on his face as he entered the kitchen, kicking his chair out and sitting down. For a moment, his gaze lingered on the empty chair beside his, but when he felt his smile slipping, he quickly turned away to pile food onto the plate in front of him, pretending his hands weren't shaking as he did so. His mother and father said nothing, and Ron's gaze was lingering on him in silence, but Ginny seemed rather preoccupied with what she was doing - which was, at the moment, scribbling something down on a piece of paper, her food untouched on the plate in front of her as she smiled to herself and continued writing.

A perfect opportunity, it would have been. But unnecessary. George kept his mouth shut and started eating in silence, refusing to look up and meet Ron's gaze for even a split second. It wouldn't be the first time one of them had walked in on him during or after a mental breakdown, but Ron seemed particularly stuck on it now. He'd have to double his jokes just to shake him.

"George-" His mother started, suddenly, only to stop and look down. George paused and looked up, taking his gaze off of his plate to look over at her, only just realizing the smile had dropped from his face while he was eating. He forced it back effortlessly, leaning back in his chair and turning his attention away from his food for the time being, thankfully enough, because he really wasn't even hungry right then in the first place.

"What is it, Mum?"

"Well…" His mother cleared her throat and finally looked up, something akin to sadness crossing her face, but George could see she was fighting it. "Well," she started, again, seeming a bit more certain of herself. "Ron and Harry are going to Diagon Alley tonight- aren't you, Ron?" She looked over at her youngest son, who gave an enthusiastic nod in response. George glanced at him, his gaze lingering for barely more than a second. "They're going to check on…"

"Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," Ron spoke up, a little quieter. "And… some of the other shops. Ol- Ollivander's reopening, you know. And- well, we're just going… for old time's sake, and help a bit. The new first years are gonna need somewhere to shop, when… when Hogwarts…"

George felt like a rock had lodged in his throat by the time he managed to force himself to speak, his words sounding forced to his own ear. "Well, that's wonderful," he replied, finding it rather difficult to keep his voice light, at that point, but he wasn't going to be rude, he wasn't going to be snappish. "But, uh, why are you bringing this up to me, exactly?" He looked back over at his mother, who looked a little guilty now, as if she were about to ask George to do something impossible, or something.

"Well, George, I was wondering if you'd, possibly, like to go with them."

Ah. Well, she had.

His smile turned just a little bit strained and the silence that stretched seemed to grow even more tense by the second. It wasn't like she was asking him to go back to Hogwarts, where it had happened. But to Diagon Alley, where the shop was. The shop he had opened with his brother. The shop that had so many things, inside and outside, to remind him of him. No, that was impossible. George could hardly look around his room, hardly look at his own reflection in the mirror. He couldn't even hear his own voice, for Merlin's sake.

Reminding himself that his parents and siblings didn't know these things helped him not to snap at them right then. Being angry at them would be so easy, he knew that. But he couldn't seem to bring himself to turn it all on them, to project it all onto them. To take it out on them. The one he was angry at was himself.

Still, right then, he did want to snap.

"I'll pass," was all he could say for a good few seconds, trying not to flinch away when he saw his mother's face crumble. It took her a moment to compose herself again, and George had to look away, wondering if this is what it was like for them when they saw him bring himself back from the edge of an emotional breakdown, when he had to. If it was that painful for them to see. Or if it just hurt him because he couldn't stand to see any of his family unhappy, even now - especially now. He looked down at his plate, his appetite having completely been Avada Kedavra'd at that point.

"... Come on, George, it'll be fun," his father suddenly piped up, his mother seeming unable to speak now. "It'd be good for you to leave the Burrow, you know. You've been stuck here ever since-" He cut off abruptly, and George looked up just in time to see his mother extracting her elbow from his father's side, the man wincing as he rubbed the spot where his ribs were.

That same helplessness washed over him. If they knew how sensitive he was when it came to that particular subject, then why did he even bother pretending? He swallowed hard and shrugged at his father, managing to force the smile back to his face and giving him his usually cheeky look. "Oh, I'm sure. I just don't want to impose on their date."

Both Ron and Ginny looked over at him at that, equal amounts of indignation on their faces. George's grin widened, almost on instinct, though not really feeling the humor.

"It's not a date," Ron spoke up, glaring.

"It had better not be, at least," Ginny added, with a glare in Ron's direction, and Ron's eyes narrowed even further, this time at his sister.

"Oh, well- …" He stopped for a second, purposefully, and he felt his heart jump straight into his throat when he did, a cold rush like a plunge into icy water washing straight over him, stealing his breath away completely, as he realized why, exactly, he had stopped his own sentence, and what he had expected to come when he did. He quieted down instantly, the smile almost faltering from his face, but he kept it firmly in place and refused to acknowledge the pained expressions on their faces when they, too, finally realized what George had been intending.

Silence fell over all of them for a long time before anybody could speak after that. Of course, it was their mother, reaching forward across the table to place her hand over George's. "It… it would mean a lot to me, dear, if you would please…" She said softly, and after catching her gaze, he didn't have it in him to disagree again.

As much as it would hurt. If there was even the slightest chance it would bring her some peace of mind, some relief, than so be it. "Alright, Mum."

His mother squeezed his hand, and the pained, stressed expression on her face brightened considerably. She didn't quite smile, and she didn't look any less tired than she had before, but she didn't look like she was on the verge of tears anymore. He squeezed her hand back slightly before pulling it away and turning back to his food in silence, continuing to eat once more despite feeling like he just might throw it all up at once.

And, after dinner, in the bathroom, when he was alone, he did just that.

I'm not ready…

George was left, pacing, in his room, hearing Harry, his mother and Ginny talking downstairs. It was only a matter of time before Ron and Harry would come up to get him so they could apparate straight to Diagon Alley - or, hell, possibly straight into the shop, itself. He held his hand pressed over his mouth, fingernails digging lightly into his skin as he shook his head back and forth at himself. He could still remember the last time he had stood in that damn shop, side by side with his brother, and both of them grinning ear to ear. As they always were when they were together. It had been his and his brother's thing only.

How, how could he be expected to keep it going after what had happened? How could they expect that of him- how could he expect that of himself? How could he agree to go back? He wrapped his arms around himself, biting down on his lip and faltering to a complete stop as he dropped his gaze to the floor, the only thing he could really stand to look at in his own room. Tears blurred his vision again. The thought of going back there, without him, was too much. He had been trying not to think about it, but now there wasn't much else to think about. They would be leaving within minutes, and George couldn't just abruptly bail out on them.

Or, well, maybe he could, but that would be rude… and he'd told his mother he would go. But jeez, he wished he had a bit more time to prepare himself. He certainly wasn't prepared for this. It was too soon. Then again, he knew, it would always be too soon. He would never get over what had happened, and he didn't expect to, again, he didn't want to. But he didn't want to make it any worse on himself, and he didn't want to make it any harder to pretend he was okay, either… Merlin, when did this get so bloody complicated?

Actually, don't answer that. He knew when. And he was so damn tired of thinking about it.

He turned to sink back onto his bed, only to pause, seeing Ron, once more, in the doorway. He had his hand raised as if to knock on the already-opened door, but he paused when he saw George had already turned, noticing his presence. He couldn't seem to bring himself to look directly at George, now, and as much as he would have liked to feel irritated, he understood. "We're leaving in a few minutes…" He trailed off. "George, I just want you to know- I didn't suggest- It was Mom's idea for you to come along…"

George shook his head a little, almost to himself, and paused to brace himself again before he spoke. "Psh, rubbish, Ron. Don't care whose idea it was, you know that. Besides, you heard Dad, it'll be fun. Getting out of the house." He smirked, holding his arms out slightly. "We can't all be hermits, Ronald. Not like Ginny."

Ron stared at him exasperatedly, looking like he wanted to say something, anything. Hell, looking almost desperate to. George's jokes seemed to have the opposite effect on him than George had been intending, which gave him pause for a good few seconds, wondering why he couldn't even get a smile out of his younger brother. Was he just that pathetic now, without him? Was he really nothing, without him?

… Honestly, maybe he was.

"Look…" Ron finally spoke again, looking a little resigned now. "We don't have to go to that- particular- shop, if you don't want to. In fact, we can just go somewhere else and tell Mom-"

"Ron- Ron," George interrupted quickly, and Ron paused with his mouth still open, stumbling over his own words as if unable to bring himself to a complete stop while George spoke. "Why wouldn't I want to go?"

The look Ron gave him made him feel like he was about as tall as a house elf. Like he knew why - or at least, why he should. Well, yes, for your information, Ron, George did very well know why he wouldn't want to go to that particular shop, but he was doing his damn best to get over that at least for the night, thank you very much. But then again George was starting to get the feeling that Ron had figured out a lot more than George had originally expected him to. Which certainly didn't settle well with him, at all. And to think, he thought he was a good actor.

"You know why, George…" Ron trailed off and turned his head, and George looked up as well. Ron must have heard something he hadn't - go figure, right? - because he stepped back and, barely half a second later, Harry appeared in the doorway with a slightly goofy smile on his face and his glasses crooked. George didn't have to ask to know he and Ginny had just been snogging downstairs, and Ron, seeming incredibly amused, reached over to adjust the boy's glasses for him with a very small snicker. George fought back a twinge of pain, at the fact that recently he couldn't seem to get a single smile out of his brother, while Harry managed to do so without even trying to. And George called himself a comedian.

"Ready to go?" Harry asked, breathlessly, leaning away from Ron and reaching up to adjust his glasses himself. Ron snorted a little, but his smile faded a bit as he looked back at George, as if expecting to see something other than the forced smile that he usually had. But he just continued grinning, forced as it was, strained as it was, and took a few steps toward both of them, extending a hand.

"To Diagon Alley."

Harry put his hand over George's at once and, after a bit of hesitation, Ron followed suit. George closed his eyes, forcing every other thought to a complete stop to concentrate on where they were going. Diagon Alley. Diagon Alley. Yes, he didn't completely want to go there, not really, but it was where they were going, so… Diagon Alley.

George felt like he might be sick again, upon arrival. Not because of the apparition, but because the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was the shop. His brother's face - his face - right in front. The lights inside were off, the sign on the door flipped to CLOSED as it had been for so long now… but possibly the worst thing was the painting on the door. Him and his brother, side by side, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders and waving enthusiastically with huge smiles on their faces.

George's breath caught in his throat with a horrible, sharp, audible gasp, and both Harry and Ron turned to him at once. Ron looked as if he had expected this to happen the entire time, but Harry looked completely guilty, as if the entire thing was his fault.

George didn't really look at either of them, unable to tear his gaze away from the painting. He had completely avoided looking at any of his brother at home, turning them all around on the walls in his room and absolutely refusing to look at the walls in the other rooms. But he couldn't look away now, he couldn't force himself to turn his gaze away from his brother. Because that was him - that was him, and he was right there, smiling brighter than ever, looking right at him. He stopped waving, though, focusing only on him. George didn't think it could get any worse.

"Hey, Georgie!"

He was wrong.

Hearing that almost sent him over the edge. He never thought he'd hear that voice again, without opening his own mouth, he never thought he'd see that genuine smile again, or hear his brother greet him in that way. Tears rushed to his eyes at once, but the painting never stopped smiling. It was different from looking in the mirror at home. It only - heh - mirrored his own actions. This was truly his brother, or at least, something like him, something so much more genuine than George had been able to muster since…

George felt almost hysterical now, about ready to break down into tears at any second. A hand on his shoulder, though, reminded him quickly that he wasn't alone. He couldn't take his gaze off of the painting yet, but his head did turn in Ron's direction for barely a second, as his brother gave a small tug to pull him away. "George… come on, this was a bad idea… let's go… let's go to Ollivander's first, alright? And you can stay there while we look inside here…"

George swallowed. He couldn't move. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to. He could only stare at the painting, wanting to respond, to say something to him, anything, but he couldn't. Another rush of tears formed, and he blinked them back faster than the last, not wanting his brother to blur out of sight just yet.

And then he heard Ron say "George" again, and his voice cracked that time, sounding pretty damn close to tears, himself. That was enough for George to tear his gaze away, looking back at his younger brother. Ron looked exhausted, but more than that, he looked desperate. He hadn't even looked in the painting's direction once, and his hand was shaking on George's shoulder. He felt a rush of guilt, at once; He was supposed to be the big brother here, protecting Ron from this sort of thing. Great job he was doing.

Swallowing, he wrapped an arm around Ron's shoulders, resisting the urge to look back at the painting as he turned them both around. "Ollivander's, yeah?" He asked, a little more shakily than he would have liked, but trying more than anything to keep up his cheerful facade for his brother. Ron threw him another exasperated look and glanced behind them, where Harry had finally turned away from the painting, himself, to follow. "Let's go, then. Off to see the wizard!"

None of them laughed, not even George, as he led his brother away. But he did manage to bring a small, barely noticeable smile to Ron's face. And that was enough of an accomplishment.