School and Year - Ilvermorny Year 2

Theme - Write about a deep, unbreakable bond.

Special Rule - You must include only two characters.

Mandatory Prompt - [First line/Last line] Your death is an event that happens to everyone else.

Additional Prompt - [Song] Nothing Compares To You by Sinead O'Conner

Word Count - 1242

Author's Note - After the war, George never recovered from the loss of his twin. He lives as a full-time resident of the Janus Thickey ward, where he sits and talks with his 'brother'.


A Bird Without A Song

"Oi, Fred! C'mere and help me with this."

George didn't lift his eyes from the strange multicoloured cube cradled in his hands as his brother shuffled over to his side.

"You're meant to get each side with just the one colour, without magic," he explained, "but it's impossible!"

Fred's hands hovered over the cube, not quite touching it, as if it were a bomb ready to go off.

"Is that all you do? Sit and twist it until the colours are all in the right places?"

"Apparently."

It was amazing just how dull the object was. How could Muggles consider this a fun thing to do? It was boring and depressing, and having sat through History of Magic for years, he fancied himself an expert in that area.

"Is there a reward for finally solving it?" Fred sounded so hopeful that George felt bad crushing it.

"Not unless you count being able to throw the bloody thing away afterwards."

"Does it at least make noise if you get it wrong?"

George could hear the disgust in Fred's voice, as if it were offensive that such a boring toy should even exist.

"Nope." answered George, his lips popping out the 'p'.

"That's just barmy. It's like some kind of torture device. Like, if you want a confession from a hardened criminal, this right here would break them in record time."

"Apparently Muggles can do it no problem." George couldn't hide a smile as Fred's face contorted into a mixture of surprise and distaste.

"Yeah, but they don't have magic. They need to keep themselves entertained somehow, I guess. Or maybe they're all secretly into torturing themselves?"

He tried to focus on the task, unwilling to be defeated by a plastic cube, but it was a doomed situation. No matter what he did, no matter which way he turned the rows, the colours NEVER. MATCHED. UP.

"Ugh, this is depressing." Declared George, finally giving up and throwing the offending object across the room, where it bounced with a dull thunk on the pale linoleum before settling against the far wall.

The silence in the room was heavy for a moment as if the cube had sucked every bit of energy from them. Then, obviously unhappy at his brother's discontent, Fred spoke, his voice full of garnered cheer.

"Do you think we can improve it? Make it less crap?"

"You mean like make it ooze slime?" asked George, perking up.

"What is it with you and slime?"

"I dunno," he shrugged, trying to find a way to explain all the ways slime was the best thing ever. "It's the way others think it's some kind of toxic attack when it's just slime."

He settled back against the cushions of his armchair and closed his eyes, a smile pulling the corners of his mouth.

"The faces people make the second they see it—" George breaks off at the apparently happy thought, chuckling.

"No! Not the slime! Anything but the slime!" he mimicked, locking eyes with his twin.

He knew he looked stupid, his eyes wide with mock terror as he cowered into his armchair, his hands held imperiously in front of him as if to ward off an invisible attacker. Sure enough, he only had to hold the pose for a second before Fred was doubled over laughing.

He watched his brother cry with laughter like a man starved of the sight, before joining Fred in his mirth.

Finally, Fred got control of himself, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Yeah alright, you nutter." Fred agreed, grinning. "If you make a wrong move it can ooze slime and if you make a right move then, I dunno, maybe it sprays confetti at you?"

George found himself nodding as his brother spoke, his brain already whirring away with how to achieve the desired effects.

However, before they could take their idea any further, a tray laden with dinner popped into existence next to George, complete with salt, cutlery, and a large goblet of pumpkin juice.

They stared at the tray, taking in the lumpy stew, the potatoes, and the stringy looking veg heaped in an unappetising mess. Just the sight of the food made him yearn for the Halloween Feast at Hogwarts.

After a moment, he realised that there was only one of everything, what was Fred meant to do? Starve to death?

"Oi, you forgot Fred's again!" He yelled to the room at large "Oi!"

"It's fine, Bro," soothed Fred, peering at the steaming food. "You know I can't eat anything anyway."

"Yeah, I don't blame you," agreed George, crinkling his nose at the lumpy stew-type concoction. "It's hardly on par with home-cooking, is it?"

He lifted his fork and stirred the stew, watching as steam wafted into the air. The smell wasn't half bad actually, the meaty gravy making his stomach grumble. He hadn't realised just how hungry he was. Maybe that stupid Muggle cube wasn't entirely useless after all. Maybe it's a Muggle dieting tool. He could just imagine the advertising campaign now, "bore your way through weight loss."

"You want to just share with me?" He certainly had no intention of eating while his brother sat there hungry. "It smells better than it looks."

"George," Fred's unusually grave voice caught his attention instantly and he looked up at his frowning twin. "You know I'm not really here. Now stop faffing and eat your dinner or visiting tomorrow is going to be a nightmare."

"Fred—"

"C'mon, or you'll never get out of here." Fred's usually cheery eyes were now crinkled with worry. "

The bottom of his stomach seemed to vanish and he knew the food on the plate wouldn't ever be enough to fill the void. His mind quickly raced through the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, how Fred had been hit, how he'd cradled his twin so close you would have thought they shared the same body.

"Why did you have to leave?" George croaked, unable to take his eyes off Fred.

Fred, who for the first time in his life was deadly silent, not a shred of laughter on his young face.

"It's fine for you," continued George, his eyes burning with an ocean of grief, "you're dead. I'm the one who's left behind."

He felt hollow, so utterly hollow. He should have died with Fred that night. They're one person, to expect one to exist without the other was just cruel.

"I always thought dying would be the worst thing that could ever happen to me, but I was wrong." He sniffed and wiped his runny nose on his sleeve. "So wrong."

"It's like that time we tried to invent those Flight of Fantasy wings and— and we almost broke our necks jumping out of that tree."

It was getting harder to breathe, his breaths stuttering on each inhale as he tried to explain to Fred just what living without him was like.

"Remember w-we were sitting in St Mungo's wondering w-why everyone was s-so frantic with us."

His face was soaking now, his tears flowing fast and furious down his neck into his collar.

"It's just—"

He floundered for a moment, unsure how to continue. He ran his tongue across his lips to try and wet them, wincing at the salty taste before finally finding the words to explain his pain.

"Your death is an event that happens to other people."