The Houses Competition (or THC) Round 8

Story Type: Drabble (up to 1,000 words)

House: Hufflepuff

Class: Potions

Prompt: (object) Knitting needles

Word Count: 683

Disclaimers/triggers: Suicidal thoughts

Hello hello hello! Well, this round took a dark turn out of nowhere! Both in regards to the context of the stories and considering my delay in posting. Alas, powers beyond my control made the choice for me. So I would like to give a huge huge thanks to the mods and especially Moon for making this last-minute adjustment to allow me to still participate.

And last but not least, a huge thank you to my incredible betas, Story Please and DarylDixon'sgirl1985! Without you, I'd be floundering.

And now it is finally time to Allons-y!

Gred. Fred had engraved that in the wall behind his bed when he was 14. Forge, George had added from his place at the lower bunk.

The lone red-head traced the words reverently, the messy letters giving him a sense of completion he hadn't felt in a while. Because George Weasly hadn't been born to be alone. He was to be part of a duo. Without that, he was nothing.

Everyone mourned Fred, of course. His mother weeped for days, at times forgetting to eat. His father had started at the wall silently, in a near-catatonic state. Charlie had escaped back to Romania, Bill had thrown himself into his life with Fleur, Percy had taken over the shop, Ginny played Quidditch like she wanted a Bludger to hit her on the head and Ron drowned this and all his other trauma into Firewhiskey.

But no one felt what George did. The unbearable feeling of disconnect, of not being yourself, of missing a part of you that you just can't get back. And now it was the first Christmas without him and everyone was trying to act all cheery and George just couldn't bring himself to care.

He had suffered through dinner quietly. He had sat on the couch during dessert in silence. Everyone had waved goodbye and he hadn't even given them a nod. And now the Burrow was empty again and Molly was trying not to cry by cleaning up and Arthur had already retreated to their room and it was just George. Alone.

His neck twiched, the muscle growing sore after so many hours of staying in one place, and his head tilted to the side. His eyes briefly drifted to the family clock, where Percy had rushed to remove Fred's hand to hide the painful reminder, though its absence made the hurt flare up even fiercer.

His dull blue eyes fixed on the flames, a metallic gleam catching his attention. His mother's knitting needles laid in her favourite seat, the light from the fireplace bathing them in an alluring soft, orange colour. Though this was not the only attractive thing about them.

George had had these thoughts a lot. On the days where it was the hardest to cope, he'd pictured meeting his brother again beyond the Veil. It happened with the razor he used to shave, with the cliff near the Quidditch field at Ginny's last game. Now those knitting needles sang to him, beckoning him to take one in his hand and make himself whole again.

Maybe his family wouldn't even notice. Everyone knew he was more of a ghost these days anyway, what would the difference be? How many days would it take to figure out that he hadn't moved from the couch because he couldn't? Maybe they would bury him next to Fred, bringing them together once more as they were born to be. Together in life, together in death.

The thoughts started manifesting like an itch in his hand. An itch to just reach out and end it all. It would be quick, probably painful but he deserved that. He could take a little pain if he could be with Fred again. It would be better for everyone, one less reminder of what they'd lost. Maybe if they stopped looking at a face that was so similar and yet not, they would be able to forget and heal.

"I'm putting out the fire, George." His mother's soft voice brought him out of his reverie. "Maybe you should get to bed before it gets too cold."

"Sure, Mum, I'll do that." The words that left him felt strange, as if they were coming from someone else.

"Okay, love. I'll see you tomorrow," Molly sighed before dousing out the flames with a silent spell and retreating upstairs.

Tomorrow. She would see him tomorrow. Would she? Yes, she would. With a sigh, George ran a hand over his face before he got up and followed behind his mother. He couldn't do it. Maybe life would be kind enough to at least give him his brother in his dreams.