DISCLAIMER: Monotone drone: Do not sue. Own nothing. Do not make money. So sick of writing disclaimer. Used to be creative about it. Creativity gone. Thank you, come again.

CHAPTER TEN

ONE

"My feet are tired, Fred," George whined, "Are we stopping soon?"

"Yes, yes, don't worry," Fred assured him, "we're nearly there."

"Is it nice there?"

"I don't know if it will be nice anymore. It was always a little shabby, but it's our home."

"Home sounds nice. I like the sound of that."

"We might have to do a bit of cleaning, but it should be comfortable enough."

"Oh good. I'm awful tired."

Fred's pulse quickened as they approached the overgrown hedge. He thought giddily of how the garden gnomes must have taken over the whole house by now- if it was still standing. When they came to the structure, Fred stopped, put his arm around George, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"There it is, George. It's still here."

"It looks like it might fall down," George giggled, "But it won't, will it, Fred?"

"No. I won't let that happen. Say, George, you want to do me a favor?"

"Sure," replied George eagerly.

"See those boots on the front stoop? I want you to put all of them in a neat little row along side of the house, while I go and do something."

George's brow furrowed with worry. "You're going to come back, aren't you?"

Fred smiled. "Of course I will. So would you do that for me?"

Now that the boy was busy, Fred took a deep breath, allowing his eyes to wander over the roofline and to a certain tree that towered over it.

It was time. Of the places he'd traveled over all these years, from Australia to the west coast of the United States, he'd never come back here, to the Burrow, because returning here meant he had to accept the truth. Here meant he had to grieve and cry and know, truly know, that his brother was no longer with him. All that was over now. It had been too long. Charlie was right, and his words echoed in Fred's head-

George wouldn't want you to be like this.

As soon as he'd heard these words, Fred realized that he'd let himself grow so disillusioned that he no longer knew his own twin brother. Of course George wouldn't leave him and never come back. Of course George wouldn't want him to waste his life searching….

But still, George's death would never be real until Fred saw it himself, and so he took the first step forward, terrified, his entire body shaking. His eyes stung as he rounded the house and looked under George's and his tree. There were six of them in all, one for each child, except them. Charlie's was an oak, near the pond; it was still huge and strong. Bill's wasn't far from it, still alive and well, and slightly taller. Ron's was the size of a tall Christmas tree. Ginny's was a cherry blossom, beautiful and pink in the warmth of the spring. Percy's was a Weeping Willow, and since Fred knew little about trees, he couldn't tell really if it was doing well or not, but seemed to be a bit saggy, even for the kind of tree it was.

George's and his tree was almost as tall as Bill's, with a thick trunk, and it still bared the scars from when the twins had carved their initials into it as children. On the left, FW, on the right, GW, just above a rounded mound of dirt and handmade cross that marked the grave.

Blinded by tears, he hugged himself and forced his legs to move closer. He stopped at the foot of the grave and could not hold in a single, anguished sob. Charlie must have spent a good deal of time, carving these words into the marker, in unsteady lettering:

George Frederick Weasley

1978- 1996

He dropped to his knees in front of it, shaking uncontrollably. He felt like he should have just wanted to throw himself on top of the grave and lay there forever, but instead his first impulse was just to listen. He wanted badly to hear something- some trace of his brother that might still be lingering. He knew quite well that ghosts existed, didn't he?

But he knew there could be no ghost of George. Ghosts were those who died so suddenly that their souls could not rest. George had seen death closing in. He had plenty of time to receive his invitation to whatever the afterlife held.

It was himself, Fred realized, that had been the ghost.

In the blackness of his closed eyes, a horrible feeling came over him. He was filled with the memory of fear. The fear became solid, real. But he wanted to run to it, rather than away from it. He had to go to that fear and chase it away, but something was holding him back. He fought, but they wouldn't let him go- he heard Charlie screaming Percy's name-

He realized the fear wasn't his. It was George's, and the fear was that of death. It was all coming back to him. He remembered part of himself fading quickly away- his brain becoming silent and dark. Hungry, all the time hungry, as if he were hollow. Gnawing, like someone was taking an ice pick to his stomach, a pain that only grew worse and more intense with time…

Until the wall had begun to rise. A thick wall that could not fill the emptiness, though it tried, but did managed to numb the pain of it. The wall came up strong, and only then was he able to wake from his nightmare of incoherency, only to enter another nightmare: awareness. Bill had been in the next bed, and Fred welcomed the guilt that came from knowing his eldest brother was unable to move. It was distracting. It strengthened and reinforced the wall. The wall allowed him to believe that George was alive. The wall stood between him and the memory of George's death.

Fred knew deep down that he wanted the wall to crumble. That was why he had carried pictures of he and George in his wallet. They were Muggle pictures. They'd wandered into a mall one day and had them taken in one of those booths. They were black and white photos, five in row of them striking silly poses with huge smiles. He would often, in his wanderings, end up in different flats of Muggle girls. They seemed to adore him, even in his filthiness. He would awe them with stupid magic tricks. They felt sorry for him. Sometimes, in a flirtatious manner, they would play "What's in Fred's wallet?" and find the pictures. They would gasp and be delighted over him having an identical twin, and he would be able to talk of George like he was still alive.

"Where is he now?" this girl or that would ask, and Fred would say he didn't know, and cry, and feel the wall weakening with each falling tear.

But now he knew.

"I miss you, Georgie," he choked, putting his hands on the dirt, "I'm so sorry… I searched the whole miserable world, and you've been right here the whole time- you know me… never knew my arse from my elbow. I was always the codependent one… who knew?"

He chuckles miserably, wiped his face, and forced himself to gain his composure. He was sure that George was listening, from somewhere.

"I'm back, George. I know you'll forgive me for being so silly and weak… You wouldn't believe how bloody useless I am without you, you dolt. You know a few years ago I actually ended up in the hospital? Yup. In Vancouver, B.C. That's in Canada. You weren't around to remind me we can't eat oranges. I got so excited, Georgie. I thought I was going to die, I thought I was going to be with you- I think that's when the wall got it's first major crack in it. I thought to myself, 'why do I think I'll be with George? George isn't dead.' And I was so dumb and in denial that I lived." Fred laughed, "Can you believe that? I lived." His throat began to tighten again, but he continued in a strained voice, "I shouldn't have, George. I should have tested that goddamn gumball. It would have been better for everyone. You were the one everyone loved, Georgie. I was just the one-sided, zany practical joker. Nothing below the surface, except with you. I wasn't ever interested in really knowing anyone else, not even our own family. I left that up to you. I couldn't stand being around them after you died, George. I didn't know what to do. When they talked to me, I would answer and not know how to finish. I don't like to clarify, George. You know that. I don't like to put any effort into making myself understood. So I never said anything with depth. I left that up to you. You always knew what I was trying to say. I hope you know what I'm trying to say now, cause I know I'm not making much sense…"

Fred stopped when his voice began to crack. He was now laying on one side of the grave, his arm and leg over the mound, his face in the dirt, his eyes closed. "It should have been me. I'm just as much a shell of you as that boy is."

The air seemed to shift. Fred felt something new. It was an odd sensation.

It was the sensation of being disagreed with.

"I hope you don't mind him, George. I don't know where he came from, but he's here, and I have to take care of him now."

The air seemed to respond. It filled his ears.

Of course I don't mind, it seemed to say, but don't you talk like it should have been you.

"What the hell was I thinking? So many wasted years, wandering."

I would have done the same, the air around him whispered.

"You would not have done the same. That's how you and I were different. You always knew what to do- you always knew you arse from a bloody hole in the ground- I should have tried the gumball, not you. It should have been me."

Stop it. You knew not to reject George.

"Only because Charlie slapped him. I felt his pain, ten times more than I could ever feel yours. Why is that, Georgie? Why?"

He is made from the part of you that is me.

"Have I gone mad? Am I really hearing you speak to me, George?"

But his concentration was broken. There came no answer. He took a deep breath to relieve some of the pressure in his chest, and didn't jump went he felt warm hands on his shoulders.

"I did it, Fred. All lined up, just like you asked."

"Thanks, George." Fred rose and brushed himself off.

George looked down at George's grave and looked very sad. He patted Fred lightly on the back. "It's going to be alright, Fredsie. Everything will be just fine. I don't know much, but I know that."

By this time Fred was demonstrating one of those strange kind of smiles; a smile that is desperate, yet heartfelt, through a fog of tears, wet and gurgling from snot that has built up in the nose, yet a smile of relief, because the smile has spawned from believed words of condolence.

Everything would be alright.

"You're sweet," Fred said to George, trying to wipe away tears that didn't seem to want to stop. "Come on. I'll show you Home."

"I've got a pain in my stomach, Fred," the boy told him, "Not really a pain- but I don't like it."

"Show me where."

"Here. It feels like stuff inside is moving and rubbing together."

Fred smiled, tousling George's messy hair. "I know what's wrong. You're hungry. We've not eaten."

"Eaten?"

"Yeah. Why don't you and meet me by the door. I've got one more thing to do."

"Okay."

As the boy padded away, Fred turned back to George's grave. "I have to go, brother. But I want you to know that for once, you're right."

He made his way to the house, and the air that had whispered to him seemed to follow, surrounding him, filling the emptiness inside a little more with each step.

He didn't need to look back. He had made his peace with George, and they were one again.

Okay, role call. Who is still with me? Let me hear it! Next chapter will be up tomorrow.

Not to be obnoxious, but for my reviewer who requested that I not make my ANGST fic (definition: torment, sorrow, anxiety, worry) so depressing:

George came back to life, and he and Fred opened their joke shop and lived happily ever after. Voldemort died of a stroke that very same day, and there was lots of dancing and singing in the streets. And never mind all the other plot elements, they all went away and the Weasleys and Harry and Hermione came out of hiding and Fred and George let off a dung bomb and everyone laughed.

Roll credits.

Now, for everyone who finds this ending to be unsatisfying, please read on.